an Dubhlachd
by not.snorry
Summary: 5th year: Harry spends the Christmas holiday with Snape training. mentor/adoption story. Snape lives in Barvas, Lewis -my Scottish Gaelic is a little rough as I'm learning, so bear with me and feel free to send corrections. Hoping to post new chapters every week/every other.
1. Chapter 1

December 23:

The shadows in the house feel heavier and it is, for once, blissfully quiet. There are no children running on the floor, which means no sounds of sweaty feet slapping the wood. When the children do make appearances, it is never for long and they are not loud. Even the typically abusive painting in the hall is dead silent.

Severus runs his index finger over the spine of a text before pulling it down. Though he has always… had always… been welcome in the Black residence, there is no harm in checking for curses. It would be just like Black to leave the curses on the more interesting books that only Severus is likely to go looking at. He flips it open and is assaulted by a cloud of dust. His face messes up as he tries to hold in the sneeze, but alas it refuses to be swallowed down. In one swift motion, he lifts the book above his head and sneezes toward the floor loudly three times. As a man, his sneezes are just as loud as his father's had been and no less annoying. Certain the attack is over, he returns his gaze to the book.

He's had access to this book only once before—the summer of 1975, when he visited the Blacks for a weekend-long Death Eater retreat. That weekend served as his formal introduction to the Dark Lord. He hadn't expected to gain favor, but it had not been difficult. The Dark Lord studied obscure magical theory and potions with the same fervor as Severus. Many a night they'd spent arguing over little things like how precisely ingredients must be diced in order for a potion to reach maximum potency. Such a shame the Dark Lord had not used his brilliant mind for academia.

Even the title and author's name are in bastardized Latin, making it impossible to translate. Veneficus ius. Vetus sedes anguis. **** ** _Poisonous Soup, Old House Snake._** Literally. Believing it might translate to Potions by Salazar Slytherin is most certainly wishful thinking, but if there's any chance then he is bound by Slytherin honor to investigate it. He tucks the book under his arm and takes one last look at the old library before making his way down to the dining room.

Severus is the last to take his seat, as he likes it. Potter is in-between Black and Lupin, silent for once in his god-damn life. Even the two Marauders have the decency to refrain from their usual foolishness while Weasley is hospitalized. He holds the book on his lap and strokes his thumb over the cover. Potter is almost perfectly still, though no one seems to notice. He seems meek, until he glares up at Severus, his eyes filled with fire.

The sound of the floo catches the others' attention, but Severus continues to stare Potter down. It is astounding that none of the others ever see the temper and disrespect Potter gives him so willingly. What he wouldn't give to ground the child, or hex him. Yes, he would ground the brat, hex him numb and feed him a steady diet of tripe and brussel sprouts, perhaps he'd even test out some nasty potions on him. He hears Albus enter, but waits for Potter to look away first.

Albus stares blankly at the table for a moment before looking up with an impressive fake grin. "Arthur is recovering well. The poison was halted successfully, without Severus' intervention. We are all lucky you were able to get help to Arthur, Harry." He stops for a moment to let those so inclined whisper to Potter what an incredible job he's done and Severus gags just loud enough to draw another glare from Potter. More heads turn toward him and feels obligated to say something.

"Bravo," Severus hisses with just a tad more contempt than planned.

"Bravo indeed," Albus says before the fighting can begin. "However, it is concerning that the vision occurred." He turns his head to Severus and narrows his eyes, as if studying something fascinating. "Has there been any indication that Voldemort's…" Severus digs his nails into his palm to cut the burning pain in his arm. "…mental defenses are failing?"

Severus slowly releases his fist and raises a single eyebrow. "I have seen no evidence that his legilimency is weaker. He does not cast the cruciatus beforehand. Were he struggling, that, I imagine, would be the first sign."

Moody growls and stomps his fake leg. "Ach! Not such a great mind-reader if yer still tricking him, is he?"

"Mind-reader?" Potter asks—the only show of interest he's given—as he puts his elbows on the table and leans forward.

"A gross over-simplification," Severus explains before anyone else can speak. "Legilimency requires eye-contact and can be warded off…."

Potter frowns, obviously not listening, and continues on. "If he focuses on me he can speak to me, or make me talk his words, or do what he wants?" he asks, his voice getting higher with each word.

Severus growls to cut the boy off. "We're talking about Lord Voldemort…." He grips the seam of his trousers to stop his arm from noticeably twitching. "Not Professor X, you twit."

Potter's eyes go wide for a moment before he furrows his brow. "But if this has to do with me and seeing Mister Weasley then… I don't know. I need a… a Magneto hat. But he's not controlling me! I see into his mind."

"A Magneto hat," Severus repeats slowly. "You are beyond idiotic."

"Enough," Albus says with frustration. He gives Severus' eye the look he gives when Severus is acting a bit juvenile before turning the same gaze in Potter's direction. "As much as I would like to hear about this 'magnetic hat' another time, Harry, there is a point to this meeting." Potter returns to looking like an innocent boy and looks at his hands as he sits. A well-practiced show of submission. "Professor Snape uses a mind-magic called occlumency to prevent Voldemort from successfully using legilimency on him. You must also learn."

Potter perks up at that. "You'll teach me then?" he asks with far too much hope for Severus' liking. "Over break? You can stay here with us, I guess."

Albus raises a hand to cut Potter off and redirects his gaze to the table. He's shared his concerns with Severus regarding a mental link between Potter and the Dark Lord, but he never expected the man to ignore Potter so directly. "I do not have the time, Harry, and quite frankly I lack the expertise. Professor Snape is the best man for the job." He pauses, clearly anticipating the backlash.

"Not the best man for any job," Black taunts with a pompous smile. Now that he's been cleaned and de-wormed, the dog almost passes for a proper Black—at least as far as physical looks go.

Severus holds off on responding for a long moment. If he plays this right, it could be rather enjoyable. "If you expect me to give up my holiday to stay here…." He punctuates the last word. There is no reason not to make this as painful as possible for the old man.

Albus nods once. "You've grown predictable with age," he says with a small laugh. "Harry will train at yours. Will you be returning home, then?"

Severus does not bother to withhold his smirk. Yes, Potter can stay at his home for the holidays, in a structured environment. "Indeed. My humble abode must be upkept, after all." At the mere mention of cleaning, Potter's face sours and the glare is back. "Discipline is vital to occlumency."

Black snarls like the rabid dog he is and jumps to his feet, ready to attack. "Harry is an heir not a house elf! You will not treat him beneath his station."

"Pity, prince Potter can't manage a few chores in exchange for the vital, possibly life-saving instruction I am willing to provide."

"He will not do…"

Albus mutters but it is not until the stinging spells hit that either of them pay him mind. Black yelps and draws his wand, slow to realize who the spell came from. He lowers it slowly and shifts his weight around like a child trying to fidget the pain away. Severus is far more stoic and refuses to acknowledge the pain. He is not a child now, if he ever was. "Are the two of you finished?" Albus asks.

Severus gives a single nod while Black growls. Surely the whole debacle will be blamed on Severus, but nobody will speak until Albus has fled. "Harry will spend his weekends here," Albus continues. "Monday morning through Friday evening, you will stay with Professor Snape," he says, looking in Potter's general direction. "Will you do that for me, Harry?"

Potter does not gulp or flinch, instead he tenses the muscles in his throat and arms. It's subtle and defensive. "Monday morning through Friday evening. I'll go pack." He stands, still maintaining his defensive stance, and walks off like he's fighting the urge to run.

A tea set appears, as if a hot beverage is going to calm anyone. To Severus' surprise, it's Molly that speaks. "It's Christmas, Albus," she says with typical motherly concern. "Let Harry stay here."

"Dark Lord doesn't care about Christmas," Severus whispers in between sips.

The wolf's ears twitch and Lupin focuses on him. "It can't possibly be that serious," he snarls. The man looks disheveled and quite frankly homeless, despite living at the Black residence. Or perhaps it is because of living with Black. "Harry can start after Christmas."

Severus raises a single eyebrow and takes a long sip of his tea. Albus appears to be considering the idea, but Severus will shut it down as soon as Potter is within ear shot. "I am afraid it is that serious," Albus says. "I cannot estimate the power Voldemort might have over Harry's mind."

"It's Christmas," Black pleads. He smiles innocently, the same way Potter does when he wants something. "He should be with family."

"He should be safe!" Severus retorts before thinking better of it. "Funny how you think you know what constitutes as serious when you've been hiding away in your mum's house. Some of us risk our lives on a regular basis, you know." His lips curl over his teeth and he glares. He could kill this man, would kill this man, over far less than he takes points for. Albus' gaze is back on him and he struggles to reign his temper in. The sound of Potter in the hallway behind them stops whatever reprimand is coming and Severus stands. He keeps his gaze on Black and straightens his robes while Potter enters.

Albus nods in Potter's direction while the charmed kettle pours him a fresh cup. "I know this is not ideal, Harry, but I appreciate your maturity."

Potter bites down on his lip like he's holding back and his neck muscles tense again. The boy is furious, and a furious Potter is never reasonable. "Yes sir," he says as if pained, "Happy Christmas." Instead of continuing a tantrum, Potter storms out in the direction of the front door.

Black gapes after him and Severus quickly snaps out of his shock. "Potter," he calls as he hurries after the boy, overwhelmed by the fear that the idiot might have stormed out of the wards. His worry over the boy's recklessness fades slightly when he finds Potter leaning against the wall, bag at his feet. "Potter?"

The boy stares up at him with red cheeks and pushes off the wall dramatically. "Are we apparating?" he asks as he slings the bag over his shoulder.

"Indeed." Severus opens the door and walks onto the front step. He keeps his gaze back, wanting to see Potter longingly stare in the direction of his mutt. Potter doesn't. Instead, he ducks his head and follows obediently.

"Well?" Potter snaps. The fire is back in his eyes as he stares up.

Severus nods once. It is rude, to study the boy so fervently, he knows. That hardly stops him. As he reaches his stained fingers toward Potter's shoulder, the boy tightens his neck muscles again and flares his nostrils. Thinking about Potter restraining a flinch only returns Severus to memories of his step-father beating him and the ability not to move that came from it. He grips Potter's shoulder with more force than he should and apparates without another word.

He grips Potter's shoulder with even more force when they arrive to keep himself upright. Crossing any body of water is difficult, much less going the distance he has, but if he is going to host Potter, he'll do it at the home he pleases. Potter's eyes go wide as he pushes against Severus' grip and he manages not to vomit. Once he catches his breath, Severus shoves him aside and starts up the walk.

There's quite a bit of open field between his house and the neighbors', far more than at his house on Spinner's End. Taking Potter to his mother's old house would be an outrageous risk to security. Besides, there isn't anything for a boy to do there other than drink and copulate –neither of which Potter ought to be doing. Here in Barbhas, alternatively, Potter can frolic in the snow without fear and Severus can brew without interruption.

Severus rubs his hands together before fumbling in his pocket for the key. He isn't dressed for the weather yet and Potter certainly isn't. As he enters the house, Potter is at his heels.

"It's cold," Potter mutters as he rubs his hands and glances around the sitting room. There's an old telly in the corner and a few old reclining chairs; there are books stacked everywhere and maps scattered about. In the room to the left, if it is even large enough to be called a room, a few coats hang from the walls and the supply of peat for the winter sits in stacks.

"Indeed," Severus hisses as he moves around Potter and picks up a peat log. He walks to the heater and light things up quickly. It will take some time for the heater to put out enough for them to feel warm, but the smell from the peat comes immediately. This is the smell of home.

They pass through a small dining room containing a cupboard of cutlery and dinnerware and a 4-person table. Potter doesn't give it a second look. In the kitchen, Severus stops for a moment and sets the kettle on. He's got a few cauldrons on the counters and various vials sitting around. Potter rubs at his nose as he pulls open the fridge and inspects its contents.

"Come along, Potter," Severus calls. Potter shrugs and lets the door slam shut. A scowl flitters across Severus' features, but he swallows his rebuttal. The brat is not going to get a reaction yet. He leads the boy upstairs and tries to ignore the sound of dragging feet.

His bedroom is first on the left, the room above the heater. He waves his hand in its direction. "My room, stay out." There's a non-committal sound from Potter, but no real reply. He steps into the next room and sighs loudly. His office is packed with papers and research proposals and books that will have to go somewhere other than the floor if Potter is to have a spot to sleep and the desk is already clamored with term papers that need grading.

Potter huffs and stomps down the small hall, clearly looking for his room. The door to the loo creaks as he opens it and Severus briefly wonders if Potter will throw a tantrum over there not being another room. He waves his wand and the mess flies into a bottomless box next to the desk.

Potter slumps against the door jam and drops the bag at his feet. "Can I at least get a blanket and pillow?" he asks with the same look he gave Dumbledore when they left. It's some combination of disgust and resignation Severus cannot quite put a name to.

Severus considers him as he takes a pencil off the desk. He twirls it in his fingers for a minute before tossing it to the ground and muttering a quick spell. By the time it lands, it is a twin mattress. Potter looks surprised, as if he actually thought Severus might make him sleep on the floor, but the look fades to indifference quickly. It is not an emotional range Severus has ever seen in the boy.

"Wait here," Severus orders as he passes the boy. He runs down the stairs to get his temperature up and fetches the spare bed-set from the cabinet. The peat smell is full strength now and he feels all the warmer for it. When he returns upstairs, Potter is in the same position as when he left, but his body is rigid. "Potter."

He turns quickly and his nostrils flare as he takes the items from Severus. "Thank you, sir," he says quietly.

Severus gives a single nod and watches for a moment as Potter starts making the bed before entering his room. He's kept his old clothes from the summers and Christmas holidays he spent on the island along with most of his old books in his school trunk, which is still stationed at the foot of his bed. It feels juvenile now that there's a teenager in the house. He does a quick mental check of everything in the trunk before moving it into Potter's room. There's nothing in there that Potter won't benefit from.

He sets it down at the foot of Potter's mattress with a thump and focuses on the bed –the sheets are pulled perfectly over the corners and he imagines he could bounce a coin off it. Potter and perfection are not words that go together in any context.

"These," he says once he manages to tear his attention away from the bed, "are my things from my school years. You'll find wool and flannel clothing that should fit you and is more appropriate for the weather."

Potter looks down at it with a glare of suspicion. "Thanks."

Severus exhales slowly as he returns to the kitchen to check on his brews. He's not prepared for this side of Potter –the boy is practically melancholic and… tame, like he might be hit at any moment. It is far too like Severus' own youthful demeanor for his liking.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry stares at the trunk until he's certain Snape won't be coming back upstairs. He's not even sure where they are. It doesn't look like anywhere in England that he's ever been –not that he's been many places. And the smell. The smell of whatever Snape is burning is unlike anything he's ever experienced. It isn't any sort of wood. He runs his finger over the name plate on the trunk –without a doubt it is the Hogwarts crest, but the name on it is not the one he expects. Sebhearas Camshron.

For whatever reason, Snape is living here under a different name. "Seb-hear-as Cam-sh-ron," he whispers and winces. It doesn't sound right. He opens it carefully, in case it's some bad joke. The Dursleys never gave him real gifts –they seemed like gifts at first, but the realization always set in.

On the lining of the top of the trunk there are little things pinned –the Slytherin crest, a photo of 6 young men in fancy robes, a cauldron pin. Harry gently unpins the photo and pulls it close enough to see it clearly. He doesn't recognize anyone but Snape, who stands at the left end with a fairly neutral expression. This Snape is young and boyish and distinctly not happy. It is a look Harry knows all too well. He pins the photo back where it belongs and starts carefully unpacking everything.

He takes the books out with little thought and sets them to his left –if he's going to be stuck in this little room, he might as well have something new to read. The clothes, on the other hand, he pays attention to. He takes the shirts out and inspects them. None of the undershirts have stains or tears, and they don't smell. The button-downs are in similar condition: the buttons are all there and the coloring is even. They might be a little tight in the shoulders, but at least they'll fit. When he pulls out the trousers, he stands to let them hang at full-length. They'll fit in the waist, but he'll have to cuff them. The wool jacket and sweaters are soft and he holds each one for a long moment before setting them aside. Those, along with the wool mittens and hat, are his favorites.

At the very bottom of the trunk lays an old journal that he almost doesn't touch. Curiosity wins out. He holds it gently in his hands and checks over his shoulder before opening it. Like the trunk, it is inscribed Sebhearas Camshron. He knows he shouldn't keep flipping through it, but Snape did give him the trunk, and what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

 _The real world lies before us,_

 _Brave motions of the young,_

 _Abundant wish for death,_

 _The pleasing, pleasured, haunted:_

 _A dying Master sinks tormented_

 _In his admirer's ring,_

 _The unjust walk the earth._

He bites harder on his lip each time he reads it –did Snape write it? It speaks to him on some level. The date in the corner reads 1 May 1976. He knows Snape is the same age as Sirius and his parents, which would put him at 35, which would have made him 16 when the entry was written. He can't picture any 16-year-old writing that nicely.

"Fuck!" he hears Snape yell from downstairs. Suddenly there's pounding on the stairs and his well-honed skills kick in.

Harry scurries toward the bed and shoves Snape's journal under the pillow without giving it a second thought. When he turns toward the door, Snape is on the last step. On some level he knows Snape isn't coming to hit him, but he's not going to give him a reason to. He folds his hands behind his back, clenches his jaw shut, and ducks his chin.

Snape growls and Harry moves just his eyes up. The man has his arms extended in front of him and, much to Harry's surprise, they're covered in black scorch marks. "Pick that shit up, will you," he says before turning on his heel and going to the loo.

Were he at the Dursley's, he'd slam the door and occupy himself a while, but Snape hates noise even more than Petunia. Instead, he begins putting things away as asked. Half-way through putting the books in neat piles, Snape returns downstairs quietly. He puts them away slower once he's sure Snape won't be coming again.

He stares down at the one in his hands nervously. It's another journal, leather-bound unlike the other. He opens to the first page.

 _Severus Snape... Cameron._

 _Seba_

 _Sebhar_

 _Sebhearu_

 _Sebhearas_ _Cameron_

 _Sebhearas Camshron. Yes._

 _Athair: tapadh leibh._ _You said to use this journal for my thoughts, but all I can think about now is how I'd rather be here, with you, and the words you speak that I do not understand. I know you only speak English for my benefit and that it's hard for you to do since it isn't your first language. You may consider this my promise to learn_ _Gàidhlig_ _so that we can communicate better._

Harry jerks his head toward the door, certain he'll be caught. He isn't sure who Snape was writing to, but it's obviously personal. _Gàidhlig_ is Gaelic, that much he knows. He's seen the word before and Petunia enjoys a good rant on how preposterous it is to keep such a language alive. Which must mean they're in Scotland. Curiosity bubbles up inside him, but he swallows it down as the Dursleys taught him to. As quietly as possible, he tosses the journal onto the bed and then resumes putting the books away. The books are done in a matter of minutes –he doesn't bother looking at the covers.

His pants make that awkward too-loose sound as he goes back to the trunk. They're huge, not that Sirius seemed to notice. He chews on his lip as he stares. Snape gave him the trunk presumably so he'd have something to wear. Nobody has ever given him clothes before, besides Mrs. Weasley, and these are Snape's personal items, not anything out of the rubbish bin.

He runs a hand through his short hair, momentarily debating whether or not he should accept Snape's kindness. It shouldn't be a question—the man is offering him things he's never had—but it's Snape, greasy git, bat of the dungeons. He should be going through a trunk of Sirius' old things, or better yet, his dad's; he should be reading his dad's old poems. As he slowly pulls on clothes—jeans, undershirt, button-down, and jumper (sans shorts after realizing they left funny lines in his trousers)—he thinks for a moment that they fit too well. Yes, the jeans have to be cuffed like he thought, but everything else is perfect.

As he packs the rest of the clothing back into the trunk, he stops every few items to touch his jumper. It's both soft and thick…and warm. In all the layers, he's warmer than he's ever been.

There's banging on the stairs again and Harry breaths a sigh of relief. Snape might be mad at him in general, but on this occasion, he's done as asked. He takes the same position as earlier—hands behind his back and chin ducked—but leaves his eyes up so he can stare. Once again, Snape's hands are out in front of him, but they aren't scorched this time, just red.

Instead of going straight to the loo, Snape steps into the doorway and drops his hands to his sides. He moves slowly around the room and stops at the bed. Harry holds his breath while he waits for Snape to snatch the journal up. The man bumps hard into Harry's shoulder on his way out and exits without comment.

Harry tells himself that the man isn't going to come back with a belt, like Vernon would, and digs his fingernails into his palms. He isn't afraid of Snape, has never been afraid of Snape, and there's no reason to start now. "You're a Gryffindor," he whispers. It doesn't work well enough to calm him, but it gets him to move away from the door.

The sensation of the jean-fabric on his thighs is weird, but he's sure it's normal. Compared to Dudley's hand-me-downs, they're restricting. He sits down and moves himself multiple times to get comfy before picking up the journal and turning to the second page.

 _Latha math_ _._ ** _Good day. Hello._**

 _Tha mi gu math_ _._ ** _I'm_** **_good_** ** _._**

 _Ciamar a tha sibh?_ _ **How are you?**_

 _Tha oidhche_ _bhrèagha ann._ ** _It_** **** ** _is a_** ** _lovely_** **_night_** ** _._**

 _Tha latha fuar ann an-diugh._ ** _It is a cold day today._**

 _An t-uisge._ ** _Rain (the water)._**

 _Tha an t-uisge ann agus tha e fuar._ ** _It is raining and it is cold._**

 _Beannachd leibh._ ** _Goodbye (blessings be with you)._**

 _Tìoraidh._ ** _Goodbye._**

 _Gabh mo leisgeul._ ** _Excuse me._**

 _Gabh mo leisgeul, a bheil Beurla agaibh?_ ** _Excuse me, do you speak English?_**

 _Chan eil ach beagan Gàidhlig agam._ ** _I only speak a little Gaelic._**

 _Tha mi duilich._ ** _I'm sorry._**

He reads through the list again trying to make sense of how to pronounce things. "La-tha math," he mutters. It doesn't sound right, but it is another language. "Thaw mi duel-ich." Once again, it doesn't sound right.

Snape learned so that he could talk to whoever gave him the journal and probably knew what the words should sound like. Obviously, Snape speaks English, an English that is usually elegant and proper at school but rough and a little obscene here, so maybe it isn't what he speaks during the hols. He glances to the date in the corner and feels his stomach drop: June 1971. Snape wrote it at 11.

"Potter?"

Harry swallows his gasp as he looks up and folds his hands over the journal. "Sir?"

Snape considers him and scowls, but makes no move to enter the room. "I have made another kettle. You and that journal will join me downstairs for a wee chat." He grunts as he pushes off the wall and Harry stares after him.

Clearly, Snape noticed the journal as Harry suspected he would, but he must have missed the one under the pillow. Just to be sure, Harry sticks his hand under the pillow and brushes his finger over it. He won't let Snape take that poem and whatever else might be in the journal from him.

After a long minute of quiet, Harry realizes he's waited too long and scurries out of bed. He takes the stairs at almost a run and attempts to come to a stop before entering the kitchen so he can enter with some grace, but it doesn't happen. Instead of stopping, his socks slide on the floor and he falls backward with an oomph. Falling doesn't hurt—he's been on the ground after tripping or being shoved more times than he can count—but a blush rises in his cheeks and he bites down on his lip anyways.

"Milk or honey?" Snape asks, for once sans nasty comment.

The blush in Harry's cheeks deepens and he isn't sure if he's more furious that Snape saw him slip or that Snape didn't make a nasty remark. "Depends on what tea it is," he mutters as he slides into the seat opposite the man and slaps the journal on the table.

Snape dunks his bag with his spoon, raises an eyebrow, and says, "Chamomile."

"No, thanks," Harry says. His gaze is stuck on Snape's chest. The man is wearing a stained button-down over an undershirt—the top few buttons are undone and the sleeves are rolled up. He must be freezing. Harry moves his gaze away to make his cup and takes in the kitchen. It looks the same as when they arrived, even though Snape had brewed earlier, and is still cold. "So you wanted to talk?"

"Indeed." Snape takes a long sip of his tea and then taps his long finger on the journal. It still has black stains on it from whatever happened earlier and looks painful. Then again, were it to get any colder Harry might torch his arms a bit for relief too. "Have you enjoyed looking through my journal?" he growls.

Harry nods as he swallows his tea and then clears his throat. "Yes. I mean…." He meets Snape's cold black eyes and the voice in the back of his head telling him that freaks don't ask questions disappears. "Where the hell are we? It's cold and that's got Gaelic in it."

In a flash, Snape lunges forward, his hands landing on either side of Harry's tea. Harry doesn't flinch and instead holds his head perfectly still. While he waits for Snape to either hit him or speak, he lists off potions ingredients in alphabetical order. It's beyond boring to do, but it's somehow calming.

"Brilliant, Potter," Snape hisses. Harry barely refrains from moving as the man's spittle hits him. "Yes, it is cold. Yes, it is Gaelic. We are in Lewis—the local name is Eilean Leòdhais. The Isle of Lewis is in the Hebrides—an archipelago off Scotland." He growls and seems to think better of whatever else he wants to say. "Moving on," he mutters as he sits. "I eat breakfast, bracaist, at 7 and typically brew until 11. Between 11 and 1, I clean or run errands and eat lunch, diathad After that I would brew or grade or research, typically, but since I am to instruct you, we will have lessons then. Supper, suipeir, may be expected at half six. You will serve yourself bracaist and diathad, unless I make something for you. I will make suipeir."

"Yes sir," Harry replies automatically, more focused on trying to remember the words. Brak…something. His eyes get a little wider as he realizes how hard it will be to learn the new language.

Snape gives a single nod and a strand of hair falls into his face. "Keep your things organized, be respectful, and we will have no issues. If you would like to play outside, wear appropriate clothing. Do not ever give your name as Harry Potter. You may give your name as Harry or Heilyn Camshron and inform any who ask that we have only recently met."

"Okay," Harry says. He repeats the name over and over in his head: Heilyn. "Can you spell that?"

A dangerous growl emanates from Snape and something flies by in Harry's periphery. Snape catches the pen with ease and clicks it as he turns to the last page in the journal. The man's handwriting is rough, but even upside down Harry can read it. _Heilyn Camshron._

"High-lyn Cameron?" he asks.

"Hay-lin," Snape says slowly. "If you do not mind, I will refer to you as thus. Now run along—I do not wish to see you again until suipeir."


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Severus wakes annoyed as usual. He would be the first to tell young people that mornings are the best time to get things done, but that doesn't mean he can't simultaneously loath waking up early. Removing himself from the warmth of his bed certainly isn't appealing. There's nothing quite like waking to the smell of peat while under heavy blankets. He throws the blankets off in one go and lands his feet on the floor before he can talk himself into staying in bed another hour. With the snap of his fingers, his bed is made and there is no choice but to get dressed. The cold air hits his body and wakes him beyond what any cup of coffee would manage. Jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater, and slippers create his warm outfit.

As he walks toward the loo, he ties his hair into a low bun, where it will be out of his way, and starts his morning ritual of reviewing the day's schedule. Eat, brew, eat, grade, call Athair, teach Potter something useful…. Potter! He stops at the boy's door, his office door, and peers in—Potter is sound asleep on his back, Severus' old journal resting open on his chest. Severus narrows his eyes in consideration. Heilyn. Not Potter. This boy is not Potter. The Dark Lord mustn't realize Heilyn is Potter. He looks again to the journal on the boy's chest and for a moment allows himself to hope it will be easy. Heilyn will want to learn, and play the engaged student. They won't argue to the point of Severus wanting to hit the boy.

He pushes those thoughts aside and focuses on what he needs to accomplish before he has to deal with Potter as he storms downstairs. Today, he will start the Dark Lord's requested potion. He can complete the first part of it by lunch and then it will need to sit for somewhere between 16 and 20 hours. Which will mean he won't have time to brew tomorrow if he wakes up after his regularly scheduled 8 hours.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and sets the kettle on. Did Albus not think at all about how having to keep a boy occupied would impact his ability to brew? He starts some water boiling and digs some oats out. "Add groceries to the list," he mutters.

A small bang from upstairs draws his attention and he can't decide if he's grateful the boy is up to eat while breakfast is warm or if he's just annoyed at having his solitude interrupted hours early. The boy bounds down the stairs and enters silently, fully dressed for the day.

"Madainn mhath, Heilyn," Severus says slowly.

Potter curtly nods as he looks around the kitchen, his eyes never reaching Severus'. "Yes sir, matin vah."

"Ma-teen vhah."

"Ma-teen vhah, thanks."

They stand in silence while the porridge cooks and Severus wonders briefly if he ought to say anything. Tobias only interacted with him when he wanted something to hit; Athair never quite filled the role—though he was happy enough to take his wayward son for holidays, the focus was always on his other children, and they had little in common. They have little in common.

"So?" Potter asks as he watches the porridge intently. "You grew up here?"

"No." Thankfully the boy is smart enough not to ask anything else while Severus pours out their tea and portions out porridge. It isn't a conversation he particularly wants to have, and certainly not one he wants getting back to the Order, but if he does his job teaching Potter, there won't be anything to worry about. They sit across the table from each other and Potter tucks into his porridge without commenting on being served mush. "My mother got drunk once, near my eleventh birthday," Severus says in between bites, "and told Tobias, her husband, that he wasn't my father. Said my father was some Scottish bloke she met at a pub, Eachan Camshron. That's Ya-chun, E-a-c-h-a-n, Cameron, C-a-m-s-h-r-o-n." He pauses when he notices Potter's eyes go wide. The boy runs off, like he's ill.

For a moment, Severus wonders if the porridge might be bad, but then Potter comes back with Severus' old journal in hand. "Ya'chun Cameron," he repeats as he writes it under _Heilyn._ "E-a-"

"c-h-a-n"

"Right," Potter says. "Cameron. C-a-m-e"

"No," Severus cuts him off. "C-a-m-s-h-r-o-n. It means crooked nose."

Potter blushes and obviously tries to hide his smirk. "You said you were eleven."

Severus almost smiles at Potter's refocusing of the conversation. It is a wise move. "Indeed. Tobias tended toward his fists, so I was happy to have a different father. Eachan, whom I often will refer to as Athair, the Gàidhlig, write that down. Gaelic is spelt G-à, the accent goes like this," he takes the pen and fills it in, "i-d-h-l-i-g. The letter 'g' often makes a 'k' sound, when not at the beginning of a word."

"Got it," Potter says as after mouthing it to himself. "Go on."

"Athair, pronounced 'aher', is a-t-h-a-i-r. It means…."

"Father," Potter fills in with a smile.

Severus is slightly overwhelmed by the interest Potter is showing in learning a foreign tongue. He learned it to better communicate with Eachan. Potter has no such reason. "M' athair lives east in Ness with his wife. He has two sons, a daughter, and some six or so grandchildren. The word for grandfather," he pauses for Potter to put his pen to paper, "is seanair, s-e-a-n-a-i-r, pronounced shay-ner."

"Seanair," Potter repeats with better pronunciation than Severus had after a few summers in Lewis. "Cool!" he says as he spoons a huge amount of porridge into his mouth.

They fall into a comfortable silence and Severus is relieved. Teaching Potter Gàidhlig will relieve the pressure of finding something to talk about, or heaven-forbid something in common, as bizarre as it is for Potter to want to learn.

-:-

Severus sets his journal aside and settles for staring into his half-empty tea. There's no explanation for the disastrous results of his morning's brewing. The smallest thud comes from the sitting room, and he's on his feet storming toward it before giving any thought to appropriateness. His flat hand connects with the back of Potter's head and his lips curl up around his teeth. "What do you think you're doing?" he hisses.

Potter looks up at him with his typical disrespectful gaze, but doesn't reach up to touch the spot where Severus hit him. Instead, he shrugs and lifts up the book in his hand. "I kicked the table." His neck muscles tense as he continues staring down Severus.

In a single moment, whatever truce they had is gone and Severus doesn't care. "Prepare yourself," he says slowly. The spell passes his lips and he is in Potter's mind, decency be damned.

Normally, when someone has their mind invaded for the first time, a series of images will flash by while the mind tries to sort out what's happening. But not Potter. The space Severus finds himself in is pitch black in every direction and feels huge. For a long moment, there is nothing: no sensation, no stimuli. Severus reaches his hand to his neck to rub out a twinge only to find something round there. A spider! He jolts in realization.

His leg catches on an armrest as he recoils and he finds himself staring unexpectedly at the ceiling. The boy is a natural. It shouldn't be possible, given his usually lacking aptitude. He sits up as gracefully as possible and is both concerned and relieved to see that Potter has fled. A burst of cold air draws his attention to the open door and he scowls. Couldn't the brat have run upstairs instead of outside? While he would not normally be too concerned with chasing after the boy, an upset teenager running about such a religious area on Christmas Eve will draw attention.

With the snap of his fingers, his wellies are on and he's out the door. The sick crawling up his throat and the struggle to walk without feeling dizzy are concerning—he's practically a master, when it comes to mind arts, and has never experienced such a disturbing mind-space.

He sets off in the direction of the footprints, chilled to the bone. The moisture coming in with the wind has his snot frozen in his nose and his fists balled. By the time he reaches the end of the street, he's ready to murder the boy and Potter is in sight. Thankfully, the spot Potter stands in as he stares across the snow-covered field is not in view of the nearest home.

"Heilyn?" Severus asks cautiously.

"I won't make any more noise," Potter mutters.

Severus gulps back the smallest iota of regret. He's always been quick to temper, same as his fathers. "I do not imagine you will need much instruction in occlumency," he says, instead of the apology he should give. "That was disturbing." Potter snorts before erupting into laughter and Severus notices the tears on his cheeks. "I assume it was a memory," Severus continues once Potter calms down. "Not the sort of memory I expected you to have."

Potter shrugs and curls his fists up in his jumper. "It was my bedroom. Sometimes a spider was the only living thing I saw for days." He looks up at Severus with bright red cheeks and a furious gaze. "You tell anyone, I'll kill you. Hit me if you want, but if you tell…."

"I said the same thing to Tobias once," Severus interrupts him. He looks down into Potter's wide eyes and sees himself reflected in the expression, for once. "I never minded being hit, reminded me I was alive." He takes long inhale, surprised beyond belief that he's going to tell Potter this. "He got drunk a few times and molested me. I said if he ever told, I'd kill him. It was our secret."

"That's a big secret to keep," Potter says as he diverts his gaze.

"Ar cagar."

"Kak-ar?"

"Indeed. Ar cagar," Severus says as he flares his nostrils. He will not rub it in front of Potter! "Our secret."

Potter twists his hands up in his jumper again and sniffles. "Can we go back now?"

Severus nods, surprised that Potter asked. They walk back to the house side-by-side and he tries not to think too much about what he's learned. Potter is abused often enough to be more afraid of exposure than of being hit again. Though perhaps not equally upsetting, Potter is also smart enough to trap an intruder in a disturbing memory. Once they're back in the house, Severus leaves Potter by the fire to warm up and makes them fresh tea.

He eventually joins Potter with two mugs in hand and lets the gravity of the situation set in. There isn't anyone else who can see Potter through this, not unless Potter wants to tell, and even then he's certain no one will truly understand. Potter isn't a boy becoming a man. He's a man already.

"I was eight the first time I got drunk," Severus says as casually as he is able. "It was after Tobias molested me the first time."

Potter glares out of the corner of his eye as he takes a long sip of tea. "I was nine. Vernon broke my leg."

Severus stares into the fire, his mind turning. Black's been out of Azkaban and in touch with Potter for what, 18 months. 18 months of contact, the Order watching Private Drive at all hours, and the abuse continued? Of course it did, Potter doesn't want anyone to know.

"Are you going to hit me much?" Potter asks at a whisper.

"I'd like to think not," Severus responds automatically. There's no point in lying to Potter, or giving him half-truths. "But we both know I don't control my anger well."

Potter gives a single nod and takes another sip of tea. "Would you promise to only hit me with your hand?" After a long moment of silence, Potter clears his throat. "I'll cook bracaist, and learn Gàidhlig, and study, and do chores. I just don't want to be hit with a belt."

The mention of a belt lines everything up. Nobody's noticed the abuse because he's been hit with a belt, likely on the back and thighs, and it's always covered by clothing. Vernon Dursley might be somewhat intelligent after all. "Agreed," he says, lost in thought.

He sets his mug down clumsily on the table as he passes it and continues upstairs with purpose. Sorting through the past would destroy Potter's natural shields and though it may be unfair, he doesn't trust that the boy will be able to rebuild them. In the top drawer of his side-table sits his new journal—leather bound with a table of contents and a section of grid paper. It wasn't terribly expensive, but he's almost hesitant to part with it. Encouraging this particular coping mechanism hardly strikes the healer in him as wise, but the boy in him says it will work.

Potter hasn't moved and doesn't pay him any mind when he retakes his seat. He drops the journal in Potter's lap and resumes staring into the fire. "I want you to think over what I say next very carefully. The anger over what happened to Harry Potter is necessary to protecting your mind, but that does not mean you cannot have another life. The history I give as Severus Camshron is not the history I give as Severus Snape. Severus Camshron's father was distant, but not unloving. Life was simple, but they took care of each other. Severus Snape was molested and beaten; he was bullied at school and had no friends; there were times where he wanted to kill himself. Both stories have their truth; both are readily available. Camshron still has his scars because Snape cannot afford to forget outright."

"Like it matters!" Potter laughs as he runs his thumb over the journal. "I write the name _Heilyn Camshron_ on the front page and in 20 years I'm a mean old bastard like you. Great! I pretend to my family that everything's fine but never actually trust them?"

"You could just hide yourself away on a small, cold island," Severus mutters.

Potter looks up at him with a half-smile. "Only if I get to drink myself to death."

Severus hums his hypothetical approval as he stands. "I don't want to be bothered until suipeir. Be quiet and do your homework." He doesn't check over his shoulder to see if Potter is disappointed as he enters the kitchen and doesn't stop to think about whether or not he's being cruel as he sets up a cauldron to attempt the Dark Lord's potion again.


	4. Chapter 4

Harry sits on his bed, tightly holding a mug of hot tea, and stares blankly at the journal. Snape's snores come at sporadic intervals from the next room and Harry's surprised he managed to get downstairs and make tea without waking him. He doesn't have the words to describe how cold he is and feels foolish in all his layers, but every now and then a numbness sets into his cheekbones and gives him the faintest impression that death has come. Clearly it has not; clearly Snape has adjusted over the many years; clearly he's just a silly little boy.

He still hasn't put his name in the journal yet—how can he possibly put anything but Harry Potter? It's his name, a name he's proud of, from parents that loved him…from parents that died, leaving him in the Dursley's care. It's a name that Sirius doesn't always remember to call him. He doesn't know how to tell his godfather not to call him James anymore than he knows how to admit to using a different name.

Heilyn: a name offered up by a man he hates, who hates him, as something of a peace offering. A new name, new clothes, a new home, everything he's ever wanted all for the price of betraying Sirius. He sips at his tea as Snape's snoring starts back up again. "Heilyn," he says slowly, forcing his lips to form around each sound. "Hay-lin." He can't help but wonder if it's what Snape would have named him.

The snoring stops abruptly and, not a moment later, Snape stumbles into the hall. Harry sips his tea as their eyes meet and swallows audibly. "You look like shit," he mutters.

"'S e plàigh a th' annad," Snape responds with a sneer. He seems to think better of whatever he'd planned to do and steps into Harry's room. His greasy hair pokes out in various directions and the dark bags under his eyes indicate he hasn't slept at all. "Why are you awake?"

"Why are you awake?" Harry responds instantly.

Snape sits on the edge of the mattress, causing Harry to tense his arm so as not to spill his tea. An odor emanates from him—Harry barely withholds a gag. "Nightmare," Snape says plainly.

Harry bites his lip as he studies the man's face. It is not the sort of thing he thinks Snape would ever lie to him about. The man is, after all, brutally honest. For just a moment, he sees himself in the lines of Snape's face: frown lines from too much worry; bags under the eyes from not enough sleep; crow's feet from squinting. "Me too." He takes another long drink and wonders if he should say something else. "Why Heilyn?" the question is out of his mouth before he even realizes he's thinking it.

The mattress creaks as Snape shifts his weight and makes the silence awkward. "I like the name and it is not dissimilar to what you are accustomed to being called. It's a well-suited name meaning 'cup bearer'."

A warm feeling rises in Harry's chest. Try as he might, he cannot push it down. "If you had a son…?"

Snape raises a single eyebrow and Harry returns to chewing on his lip. He can imagine Snape as a father. Not the sort of man that would be called 'dad' or say 'I love you.' He'd probably be a bit on the physically abusive side, not that Harry's sure getting slapped around counts as abuse. It probably wouldn't be the happiest home, but he's sure Snape would never let his family suffer.

"A shilling life," Snape says slowly as his gaze bores into Harry's skull, "will give you all the facts: how father beat him, how he ran away, what were the struggles of his youth, what acts made him the greatest figure of his day: of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night, though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea: some of the last researchers even write love made him weep his pints like you and me.

"With all his honours on, he sighed for one who, say astonished critics, lived at home; did little jobs about the house with skill and nothing else; could whistle; would sit still or potter around the garden; answered some of his long marvelous letters but kept none."

A stray tear runs down Harry's cheek, the physical effect of an emotion he cannot name. "You're a wonderful poet," he whispers.

Snape snorts and shakes his head. His greasy hair remains unmoving, even with the motion. "It's W.H. Auden, you uncultured swine. Some of us are meant for greater things than family, regardless of desire for it, which I assure you I do not." He gently takes the mug from Harry's hands and sets it on the side-table with the journal. "There are men who are placed on this earth to fight wars and conquer lands whilst longing for a man at home, tending the garden, loving and compassionate; There are men who are placed on this earth to enjoy the spoils of those wars and have families, wives and children, whilst longing for adventure."

He holds the blankets up while Harry slides further down the bed and gets comfortable. As Snape tucks the blankets around Harry's form, he hums. Harry can't help but enjoy someone finally doing this for him—somebody finally telling him a bedtime story, well poem, and then tucking him in. The tears he holds back are not those of relief or joy, but of distress at having to accept that it's Snape.

"Oidhche mhath," Snape says as he abruptly pulls away.

Harry nods as he wraps himself tighter in the warm blankets and everything slips away. _A shilling life will give you all the facts._

-:-

The next morning, Harry wakes with a vicious headache and the feeling he knows something he shouldn't. A look at the clock tells him it's 11 and the eerie silence tells him he's alone. Fear wells up in his stomach, but he can't imagine why Snape's absence would scare him. He steps into his slippers, another item of clothing from Snape, and shuffles downstairs. They fit him well, but weigh him down differently than his trainers.

Downstairs, the potion Snape's been brewing is bubbling away and a different color than the day before. A journal lays open next to it. Harry squints as he lowers his nose close to the page. The ingredients are not obscure, but he doesn't know much about potions, and it seems ominous.

The tea and porridge on the table are cold and the chair lies on its side. Clearly, Snape's gone. Harry sets the chair right on his way through the kitchen. He sits on the sofa and picks up his potions text while staring at the door. Surely Snape will be back soon and his fear will dissipate.

He only manages to read the first paragraph before the door swings open. Figuring Snape will not appreciate being crowded, he remains seated and looks hopefully at the entering figure. "Heilyn?" calls a voice too high to be Snape's.

Harry lets the book fall from his lap as he jumps up and whips out his wand. A man with short, gray hair frowns at him as he kicks his wellies off and mutters something Harry doesn't hear. "Who are you?" His voice cracks as he yells.

The old man chuckles as he enters and tosses his jacket onto a chair. He's tall and skinny, like Snape; his lips are thin, like Snape's; his nose is honking and crooked, like Snape's. "Ur seanair," he says as he extends his hand.

 _Seanair..._ _shay-ner…._ "You're my grandfather?" Harry asks as he dramatically drops his wand to his side. He looks up and down the man and curiously notes that, while skinny, this man is also muscular. "Eachann?"

"Aye," Eachann replies. "And you are Heilyn." He hikes his trousers up past his ankles and drops into a chair as he stares at Harry. "You look enough like him," he says as he points to the sofa.

Harry drops back down with a sad smile. Ever since first year, people have told him he looks like James Potter…except for the eyes, which are his mother's. Never has anyone insinuated, in the slightest, that he looks like Snape. "Yes sir." He taps his foot, unsure of what to say. "Do…do you know where…" he pauses for a moment to remember the phrase Snape used, "m 'athair is?" He says it muh-air, like the sound is completely foreign.

" _Mare_ is a better pronunciation," Eachann mutters, "but it is good of you to try. Severus was needed in London—asked me to come check on you." During the long pause, Harry thinks he should offer tea, but the look on Eachann's face disinclines him. The man looks both sad and furious. "You must forgive Severus, if he is not the father you were hoping for. Just as he must adjust to a boy he had no part in raising."

The hair stands up on Harry's neck and he thinks that might be important. "Like you did?" he asks quietly.

Eachann grunts as he nods and adjusts his legs. "Women are superior in loving children that are not theirs. For a man to love a child he must raise it and see himself in it. Beyond that there is only adjusting and accepting—you mustn't expect more."

"He's a good dad," Harry responds almost on instinct. A blush rises in his cheeks as he realizes he called Snape dad. "He isn't patient, but he cares." Movement at the door pulls his attention and as soon as he sees the black wisps of Snape's hair he runs. "Dad!" he yells as he throws his arms around Snape's unsuspecting waist.

Snape stands unmoving in his hold, limbs tense, breathing heavy. "Heilyn," he says slowly. "Eachann."

"Severus," the old man says.

Figuring it's been enough, Harry steps back and waits to follow Snape into the sitting room. Snape gives him a severe look before slowly walking to the sofa. His limp is almost unnoticeable, but he's straining himself. Harry skips as he runs to the kitchen and retrieves Snape's tea. After a quick warming spell, he takes it in and places it gently on the table before sitting next to Snape.

"I assume you behaved yourself," Snape says as he stares at Harry out of the corner of his eye. "Tapadh leibh, Eachann."

"Ceart gu leòr," Eachann responds quietly. He grips the armrests and narrows his eyes as he looks between Snape and Harry. "Am bi thu a' creidsinn ann an Dia?" he says as he stares at Harry.

Snape's eyes grow large for a moment and Harry thinks he must be translating. "Aye." The look he gives Harry is so severe that Harry gulps and decides to just go along with whatever is said. "Heilyn is a god-fearing boy. He might be with his mother on Sabbath—we're working it out."

Eachann growls and stomps his leg in a Moody-like manner and Harry recalls everything he's ever heard about god and church. "If you are to teach the boy to be a man you must also instruct him in the way of the Lord. If you fail him in all else, you must not fail him in this, as I did not fail you." He leans forward until he is on the edge of his chair. "Latha na Sabaid, Heilyn?"

Harry looks to Snape with pleading eyes and sighs in relief when the man comes to his rescue—he really must learn Gàidhlig if he's going to live here. "If, and I mean if," Snape says slowly, like he's about to give detention, "Heilyn is still here come Didòmhnaich, he will attend church with me."

"Yeah," Harry says as he nods.

Eachann hums as he stands, his gaze still on Harry. "Tha m' ùrnaigh ri Dia gun a thig thu. Mar sin leat."

Snape stands and pats Eachann's shoulder as he walks him to the door. Harry hesitantly follows. "Beannachd leibh."

"Bon-ack-ed leave," Harry attempts to repeat.

When the door is shut and Eachann is gone, Snape turns to him like the motion is painful. "Ben-ached, Heilyn. Beannachd leibh means 'blessings with you.' He said he prays you'll go to church. Now then," he shuffles back over to the sofa and retakes his seat. "As I am not instructing you in occlumency and m 'athair has met you, I will today teach you a psalm."

Harry winces as the thought of memorizing one and follows Snape's moving gaze to his bedroom. His journal! He putters off, in no hurry to complete this chore. He's agnostic, so are the Dursleys…and practically everyone else. But it's important to Eachann, and he's not about to let Snape be perceived as a poor father. He bends over his new journal and scribbles his new name in it— _Heilyn Camshron_ —before taking it, and the pen, back downstairs.

"Fine," he huffs as he sits on the floor and places his journal on the table. "What's a psalm?"

"The Book of Psalms," Snape says as he leans his head back, "is the first book of the third section of the Hebrew bible. The title is derived from the Greek translation, meaning 'the words accompanying the music.' Here in the Hebrides, they are sung and very important. You shall learn Psalm 23." He growls and stretches his arms over the back of the sofa.

"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want." He speaks slowly so that Harry can write it down. "He make me down to lie in pastures green: he leadeth me the quiet waters by. My soul he doth restore again; and me to walk doth make within the paths of righteousness, ev'n for his own name's sake." He glares at Harry's writing as he pauses to take a sip of his tea.

Harry nods as soon as he catches up.

"Yea, though I walk in death's dark vale, yet will I fear none ill: for thou art with me; and thy rod and staff me comfort still. My table thou hast furnished in presence of my foes; my head thou dost with oil anoint, and my cup overflows. Goodness and mercy all my life shall surely follow me: and in God's house for evermore my dwelling-place shall be."

As he finishes writing, Harry withholds his snide comment. How foolish, to not fear anything because of belief in some god! "Sir?"

"What, Potter?"

Harry almost doesn't ask, but somehow it is an answer he needs. He needs to know if Eachann failed Snape; he needs to know why Snape only calls Eachann 'athair' when he isn't present. "Do you believe this…drivel?"

Snape chuckles as he stares down at him. "Drivel? You do sound like a proper wizard, don't you? I go church; I say my psalms…and my prayers; I believe in divine forgiveness of sin." He snaps his finger and a peat log floats past them and into the fire. "I will ask you pretend, but I will not ask you to believe."

"Okay," Harry whispers as he returns his gaze to his journal. _The Lord's my shepherd…._

-:-

That night, he wakes with a start and hopes he wasn't screaming. Cedric was dying in his arms again to a chorus of voices telling him it was his fault. He slams his head down on the pillow a few times and focuses on the stable sound of Snape's snores. "The Lord's my shepherd," he whispers as he clutches his blankets. "I'll not want. He make me…make me lie…make me down to lie in pastures green. He leads…leadeth me the quiet waters by." His mouth hangs open while he tries to remember the rest of it.

Despite his complaints regarding it, the words of the psalm are somehow soothing. Especially now, in the cold and dark. Not a single owl has come for him and Sirius has made no effort to contact him, despite Snape's assurances that an owl would come if sent. And he's pretty sure Snape spent the day doing… Death Eater things, not Order things. In no time at all, he'll be with Sirius again.

"The Lord's my shepherd," he says again. "I'll not want. He make me… down to lie in pastures green. He lead…eth me the quiet waters by."

The second time it does nothing to sooth him, so he says it again. His mind begins to wander and he decides to put it to good use. He crawls out from under the covers for only a moment and grabs the nearest book before diving back in. As he runs his finger over the title, he leans closer to the light. _The Inferno of Dante: a new verse translation by Robert Pinsky._ The book looks brand-new, like it's never been opened. He flips to the copywrite page and sees that it only came out the year before.

Without hesitation, he flips to the first page and slowly reads: _Midway on our life's journey, I found myself in dark woods, the right road lost. To tell about those woods is hard—so tangled and rough and savage that thinking of it now, I feel the old fear stirring: death is hardly more bitter._

He hums as he thinks about Snape's obvious preference for dark literature: poems and books about death and a dreadful life. It's fitting, given Snape's past; it's fitting, given Harry's, for him to read them as well. A loud bang shocks him out of his thoughts and he looks up to see Snape in the hall.

"You're awfully clumsy," Harry says as he sets his book on his lap.

Snape's hair curtains his face and the bags under his eyes are darker than during the day. "'S e plàigh a th' annad," he groans. He walks forward, still dragging one foot slightly, and leans against the frame. "I would rather be sleeping, but alas the Dark Lord's potion requires attention at this hour, and I can hardly sleep during the day if I am going to supervise you."

Harry almost feels bad, but his attention is on the phrase Snape used. "What does that mean?"

They stare at each other for a long moment and Snape moves slightly so that the light falls on less of him. He blends in with the dark well. "Lay down, Heilyn." He shuffles in and sits on the edge of the mattress as he had done previously while Harry slides under his covers. "Out of their slumber Europeans spun dense dreams: appeasement, miracle, glimpsed flash of a new golden era; but could not restrain the vertical white weight that fell last night and made their continent a blank."

He pauses a moment to better tuck the blankets around Harry's shoulders and Harry wonders what his face must look like. He's probably staring up at the man with a stupid grin.

"Hush, says the sameness of the snow, the Ural and the Jura now rejoin the furthest Arctic's desolation. All is one; sheer monotone: plain, mountain; country, town: contours and boundaries no longer show. The warring flags hang colourless a while; now midnight's icy zero feigns a truce between the signs and seasons, and fades out all shots and cries."

Harry strains to keep himself awake long enough to hear the end of the poem, long enough for Snape to leave.

"But when the great thaw comes, how red shall be the melting snow, how loud the drums."

Snape's cold fingers brush lightly against his forehead, moving hair out of the way, and Harry gives up. He's tucked in and been recited a poem. Sleep comes easily and with the tiniest thought that he would rather stay with Snape than go to Sirius.


	5. Chapter 5

Severus pinches the bridge of his nose as he listens to Potter say the god-damned, bloody psalm yet again. Much to his surprise, a hard-working Potter is more tiresome than a disinterested one. "The Lord's my shepherd. I'll not want. He make me down to lie in pastures green: he…shit."

"The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want. He make me down to lie in pastures green: he…leads… leadeth me the quiet waters by. My soul he doth restore again;"

Severus rests his head back on the sofa and mutters along with him. "And me to walk doth make within the paths of righteousness, ev'n for his own name's sake."

Potter's voice goes up with the word 'sake' and he's obviously pleased with himself. He enters with tea and far too much joy for Severus' liking. "Have you read 'The Inferno'?" he asks casually.

"Yes." Severus glares down at the term papers he ought to grade and for once considers them the best option. At least they won't try to engage him in conversation. He picks up the top essay and notices Potter's scowl.

He listens to the rhythmic tapping of Potter's foot while he marks through the essay, bleeding it with his pen. "Idiot," he hisses. He reads the response again: _if my potion was yellow instead of orange, I could add red ink. The ingredients would all be there, so it would still work._ "I hate children."

Potter nods like he understands, despite having regularly submitted sub-par essays. "What's it say?" He looks so eager Severus is almost taken aback. Shouldn't this boy be whining about boredom, or eating porridge every morning? "Well?"

"It says _if my potion was yellow instead of orange, I could add red ink. The ingredients would all be there, so it would still work."_

"Probably a Muggle-born," Potter says quietly. Severus raises a single eyebrow in agreement. "Are they harder to teach?"

"No," Severus responds as he marks a _D_ at the top of the page. "Your mother was exceptionally brilliant; Miss Granger is as well. I've had many high-achieving Muggle-born students."

Potter bites his lip between his teeth and the tapping stops. His ratty hair sticks up in all directions, but he is Lily in his mannerisms. "Did you know my mom well?"

Despite the heat from the peat fire, a chill runs through him. "Lily and I were friends. We met as children." Potter stares up at him like he's the messiah providing the bread of life. He can't think of Potter giving this look to anyone else, even Black, and the glee he feels is a tad sadistic and countered by pity. How dare Potter be so neglected he has no one else to look up to! "My clothes never fit; they were always dirty," he continues for no particular reason. He certainly doesn't owe this to Potter.

"Your mother was beautiful, even then, a proper little girl. I might not have been raised right, but I was raised well enough to know not to bother a girl like that. In the area I lived, we drank and smoked and fucked as young as we could manage. That wasn't your mother.

"I would watch her in the park."

He pauses, aware for the first time in his life how creepy that must sound. But Potter isn't frowning, isn't judging. "I was nine," he corrects. "I knew she was magical the first time I saw her. The only other magical person I knew was my mum."

Potter smiles, like he's hearing some grand romance. "How did you know?"

Severus takes a long sip of his tea and wills himself into accepting this conversation as real. "I don't know, Potter. I always know—it's like…seeing an aura. One day, Lily jumped off the swing at the very top, higher than I'd ever seen her go. She floated down so gracefully. Petunia, of course, called her a freak, and I rushed to her defense. We talked about magic. She was so fascinated." Aware that he's starting to sound soft, he clears his throat and nods once to let Potter know he's done talking.

Instead of switching topics, Potter stays focused—the same way he spent all morning focused on that damn psalm. "She just floated down? And she was excited when you told her?"

"Ecstatic," Severus drawls.

Potter takes a hint and shifts his shoulders so he is staring down at his hands. He plays with his fingers while Severus picks up another essay. This one is as atrocious as the last and his anger consumes him so much he doesn't pay any mind when Potter leaves. That essay gets marked D.

The next essay equally draws his attention, but for the opposite reason. For a first year, this child is exceedingly literate—a Muggle-born, no doubt. The Muggle-borns tend to have a better grasp on grammar and conventions. Except Potter. For a moment, his hand hovers at the top of the page and he has to prevent it from shaking. Has he ever given an O? Does this paper deserve one, or is he just soft?

He looks up when Potter comes in and decides the answer is he's soft. The essay gets an E. Potter has the copy of The Inferno he's been reading, a pen, and his journal. Without moving his head too much, Severus can see that Potter's been taking notes. A Potter, taking notes on a classic piece of literature—impossible! Perhaps he should have humored Potter's question earlier. He returns to grading, but notices that Potter looks up at a steady interval, like he wants attention.

Severus only lasts four essays—three P and one D—before considering engaging with Potter. There is little incentive for him to do so, other than to put that stupid smile back on the boy's face. Having such admiration directed at him isn't awful.

"Is the sink empty?" he asks instead.

Potter looks up from under his fringe, his boyish features shielded by a cold mask. "Yes sir, and I've tidied my room. Should…?" He pouts for a second before putting his shield back. "Is there anything else I ought to do?"

"No," Severus responds instantly. He wouldn't have particularly cared had the answer been no. A no would have just been an excuse to punish the boy. Now he has nothing to punish and only behavior to award. "What was your question?"

The obvious mask that Potter's wearing drops in an instant and that stupid smile is back. "Who's Virgil?"

Severus cannot bring himself to be angry at the question. Through him Potter is gaining culture, after all. "Virgil, real name Publius Vergilius Maro, was a Roman poet. Some consider his Fourth Eclogue to have predicted the birth of Christ. He is the narrator of your book because he certainly would have been a Christian had he not lived before the birth of Christ, which prevented his salvation. He wrote the Aeneid."

Potter's smile drops into a glare of confusion. "Why's this Christian stuff keep popping up? I mean, people aren't that religious."

"Oh, but they are," Severus mutters. "For people that are religious, it is terribly important. Before the birth of Christ, only Jewish people had a path to heaven. Early Christians considered it their duty to convert pagans. Some still do. That book…." He points to it. "Is the first major work, and still perhaps the most important work, on the nature of hell. There are circles with punishments that fit the sin."

"What sins?" Potter whispers.

Severus can feel the shovel breaking ground, preparing to dig his grave. This is Harry Potter, savior of the Wizarding World. Who is he to give an impromptu lesson on religion? Who is he to be teaching Potter psalms and the finer points?

"There are the capital vices, or seven deadly sins: lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. Add to those the ten commandments: do not worship false gods; do not make or worship idols; do not take the name of the Lord in vain; keep the Sabbath; honour your mother and father; do not murder; do not commit adultery; do not steal; do not lie; do not covet that which is not yours."

He returns his focus to Potter, having not minded him while reciting—it's been so long since he's said any of that aloud. The boy is scribbling out what Severus said in his journal. He's left out the part about sins of the father— _for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me._ Eachann made him learn the passage to impart the importance of living as a Christian man. He won't suffer for the sins of anyone but himself. Believing that there will be some pleasant afterlife for him is a cosmetic fix, something nice to say when he can't sleep. Except for the moments when he is shaking, sobbing, praying like his life depends on it.

"Any questions?" he asks once Potter looks back up.

"The…the capital vices are what the book's about? The Inferno?" Potter crosses his legs under him like he's cold. "Reasons why people go to hell? Is it…" he pauses like he doesn't know what word he wants, "real, then?"

Severus withholds a flinch, feels the shovel pick up its pace. As far as he can recall, he and Eachann have never had a conversation about religion where they just sat down and talked. Their conversations always consisted of Eachann yelling that Severus would go to hell a family-less bastard if he didn't live right. There was no choice but to believe.

"I have done many things, Heilyn," Severus whispers as he meets the boy's gaze, "and I would like to think I'll get my due, in the end. Be that in hell, where I suffer for sin, or in heaven, where I have been forgiven. With everything I have done, I need to believe that the greatest judgement I face will be divine. Call that cowardice, if you wish."

Potter rocks back and forth slightly, like he's thinking about getting up, and hugs his journal to his chest. His fingertips start to go white from gripping it. Only then does Severus feel the cold start to set in and realize the fire is out. His right knee aches as he stands—it doesn't do well in the cold—but he refuses to limp to the peat stack. Once the log is alight and the smell of fresh peat fills the air, he goes to the kitchen to avoid Potter for a few more minutes.

The cabinets are still mostly bare. Despite groceries being on the list, he's yet to do it. The cheapest option will be to do it when he returns Potter to London. For a moment he starts to think of the foods Potter might enjoy—boy foods—but scoffs after a single item. He's to teach Potter to be a man, not encourage childish proclivities. One box of chocolate biscuits he might allow for instances of good behavior. He makes them both tea and stares into the dark depths of his mug looking for answers. Albus will be furious that he's even mentioned God, in any context. Religion is for Muggles, after all, not the sort of thing a proper wizard studies.

He returns to find Potter sitting with his elbows on his knees staring up and extends a mug. "Thank you sir," Potter says as he takes it. Surprised by the respect, Severus hovers over him just a moment too long. "Sir?"

"Nothing," Severus says as he returns to his seat.

Potter grips the mug with both hands, absorbing the heat, his journal forgotten for now. "How do you get forgiven?" he asks as he hides his lower face behind the mug. "For sinning?"

Severus sips his tea and feels the hot water burn his throat—the few seconds he's bought himself to respond are not worth it. He coughs and sets the mug down with a shaky hand. Another cough erupts and he almost laughs. Potter is asking him about forgiveness? A known Death Eater?

"Simple," he says in his best monotone. "You take Christ as your savior and ask for forgiveness. Keep the Sabbath, pray, live a good Christian life."

Potter drinks his tea like a man trying to comprehend quantum mechanics: focused, unmoving, serious. Severus hesitantly returns to grading essays. It rather appears he's damaged the boy. He starts in on the fourth-year essays, hoping for more than the usual drivel. Alas, he is not pleasantly surprised.

After six essays, Potter comes out of his state with a grunt. "Are those any better, sir?" he asks quietly.

Sir. It's the third time Potter's called him that in as many sentences. Though he is politer than Severus would care to admit, this level of respect is disconcerting. "No. The majority of my students are careless and disinterested in their studies. Potions is detail-oriented, a craft until one is proficient and then an art."

"Oh. Does God forgive murder?" Potter asks as if the tangent is natural.

A pit of despair threatens to take Severus' soul with that simple question. There is no reason for Potter to wonder such a thing. It is a question that should plague Severus, not the boy hero. "One can only hope," he says slowly, the words foreign on his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Snape drops Harry off in the evening after dinner, as agreed, and Harry is oddly sad to see him go. Perhaps sad isn't the right word. It's weird to know that he'll miss being tucked in at night; it's weird that he's going to miss driving Snape crazy learning a psalm. As he walks his bag upstairs to the room he shares with Ron, his feet feel like lead. He's got the Inferno and another book in his bag—the Wanting Seed. He took it at random off Snape's shelf on his way out the door, just in case he can't sleep at all…or in case he can't stand being away from home.

"Hey mate!" Ron says before Harry even gets across the threshold.

"Uh, yeah, hey," Harry says quietly as he places his bag on the bed.

Ron's eyes go a bit dark in a jealousy that he shows far too often. "Those are nice," he grumbles as he looks up and down Harry's body.

Harry blushes and wraps his right hand in his sweater. "Snape lives in the fuck-middle-of-nowhere. It's cold." He stares at his bag longingly and then looks back to his friend. Ron is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, like Harry doesn't exist. "Fine," Harry whispers as he pulls out the Wanting Seed. "I'll just go."

He tiptoes down the stairs, listening for movement. There's someone in the kitchen; there's someone upstairs above him. He can guess who's where, except for the twins. Hermione will be up in the library; Sirius will be up with Buckbeak; Mrs. Weasley will be in the kitchen. He doesn't check the dining room on his way into the living room.

The tree he helped decorate is still up, mocking him. He's had the best Christmas ever and it didn't require a tree. They didn't do a tree or stockings or even wrapped presents. Snape gave him a journal and his old trunk. The words _Happy Christmas_ were never uttered. He should have been here, with Sirius. It's like having an affair—sneaking around having another family behind Sirius' back.

By the end of chapter one, his head is spinning. It's only been 7 pages. The _Phosphorus Reclamation Department_? Killing kids to use them as fertilizer? Encouraging the homosexuals? _Whilst longing for a man at home._ Those were Snape's words about Auden's poem. "Oh," he says so quietly he's not sure he's spoken. Snape's…? but his mum…?

He chews his lip between his teeth and starts chapter two. Tristram is no more likable than Beatrice-Joanna, but he is a bit more accessible. 'Sin is really only another word for selfishness.' This book is bizarre, absurd, but he likes it. The smell of a roast wafts in after a few more chapters. His stomach growls—it'll be much richer than what he's been eating at Snape's.

"Hello Mrs. Weasley," he says as he enters the kitchen.

She gives a surprised yelp as she turns toward him, potato masher in hand. "Harry dear! I didn't know you were back." She sets down the masher and wipes her hands on her old apron. "Has Professor Snape been good to you dear?"

Harry withholds his smile and the desire to say that Snape's great, that Snape tucks him in and tells him stories. "He's strict," he says with a nod, "but fair."

"Good!" Mrs. Weasley returns to the potatoes and mutters something about finding the boys.

In the cabinet above the far counter, Harry finds the plates. He should have known where they were, having been here for a few days since term ended. It's like Tristram said, selfish. He takes enough plates to set all the places at the table and sets them out carefully. Usually, when he's with the Weasleys, he doesn't think too much about chores. Mrs. Weasley never asks him to do them, after all. But he feels different now.

When he goes home on Monday, Snape will certainly ask him if he's behaved. When that moment comes, the answer will be yes. He'll say he helped with the dishes and learned his psalm and maybe learned some Gàidhlig. Snape won't be proud, or happy, he's never proud or happy. But maybe it'll prove something. He returns to the kitchen and fetches the silverware without disturbing Mrs. Weasley.

By the time he's set everything out, the table looks good. It isn't set the way Petunia likes it, rather the way Snape likes it: orderly, but not presumptuous. He fetches his book and sits in the seat next to Snape's, just in case the man comes for a meeting. He won't, but one can hope.

"Fred! George!" Mrs. Weasley screams as she storms out of the kitchen.

The twins arrive with two pops. "Hello." "Mum."

"I don't know who you think you are, moving plates and silverware, but I won't stand for it!" She smacks at each of them with her oven mitt. "And you all, ignoring Harry," she says as she turns toward him. Her cheeks grow red as she looks between Harry and the set table. "But, but…."

Behind them, the door swings open. Ron, Hermione, and Ginny enter laughing over a joke Harry clearly wasn't invited into. "Harry!" the girls yell in unison.

Ron glares until he notices Mrs. Weasley looking at him. "Wut?" he snaps.

Mrs. Weasley crosses her arms over her large chest and even Harry knows to be afraid. What she's furious about, he doesn't know—he just hopes it isn't him. Mr. Weasley enters then, along with Remus and Sirius, but the tension does not dissipate. "Molly?" Mr. Weasley asks quietly.

She rounds on him, her finger pointing into his chest. "While your children," she spits, "were upstairs playing about, Harry came home and set the table."

Mr. Weasley's face goes equally red, but Harry thinks it must be for a different reason. Mrs. Weasley is angry; Mr. Weasley looks embarrassed. Probably because it's Mr. Weasley's job to teach the boys to be men, Harry thinks.

"I'm very disappointed, very disappointed," Mr. Weasley says. Unlike Mrs. Weasley, his angry…disappointed voice is quiet—intimidating, but hardly scary. "Harry has been training very hard with Professor Snape. He shouldn't have to take on responsibilities here."

"I'm happy to," Harry cuts in.

Mrs. Weasley waves him off. "Yes, Harry dear, thank you." She turns toward her boys. "I'd think you might be grateful that you are not having lessons over the holiday, that you would be grateful you spent the holiday here." She pauses and looks at Harry over her shoulder. "And Happy Christmas, Harry. I'm sure you're excited for your presents."

Presents? Harry doesn't mention that he knows there's nothing under the tree while she continues on about how they should feel sorry for him. If they'd really wanted to send him presents, they'd have done via owl. After all, he left theirs under the tree—New Theory of Numerology for Hermione; a broom compass for Ron; a fuse wire and screwdriver for Mr. Weasley; a hand lotion set for Mrs. Weasley; a book on Houdini for the twins; the autobiography of Gwenog Jones for Ginny; an aromatherapy set for Remus; a soft Gryffindor blanket and scarf for Sirius. He misses the rest of what she says and doesn't look back up until everyone's gone off to washup.

"Happy Christmas, pup!"

Harry looks up to see Sirius and Remus smiling guiltily down at him. "Happy Christmas," he responds, unsure if he wants to get up and hug them. "Did you like your presents?"

"It's nice to have a Gryffindor blanket again, thank you pup," Sirius says as he sways into Remus' side. "This one's been putting those oils in his bath every night."

Remus blushes and subtly moves away from the other man. "They're lovely, Harry, thank you."

Sirius brings his arm out from behind his back and shoves the wrapped gift in it toward Harry. "It's from us both, hope you like it."

Harry looks back and forth between them—Sirius in his suit, Remus in worn-out trousers and a sweater—and thinks this is somehow cold. It doesn't smell like peat, and they haven't paid him mind up until now. He just wants something of Sirius': his old clothes and books, or something they can discuss.

He takes the paper off it slowly, building himself into being excited about it. Practical Defensive Magic and Its Use Against the Dark Arts. Given the target on his back, it's certainly practical. Cold. There's nothing personal about this book.

"It's great, thanks," he says as he stands into an embrace with Sirius. Remus just smiles and pats his shoulder. He plops back down in his seat before Sirius can bother him to move and watches them go to their usual seats.

Sirius takes up room, like he owns the place, which he does, and the difference between him and Snape is suddenly invasive. Snape curls up, takes as little space as possible, even in his own home. The way he sits is gentle, but the way Sirius sits is… physical, like he's ready to run at any moment.

"So how's the greasy git been?" Sirius asks with a laugh. The laugh drops, and he is almost scary. "He's not making you do things, is he?"

"Do things?" Harry repeats. "He mostly leaves me be when he isn't teaching me. His brewing takes a lot of time." Not a lie. He must not lie—Snape says it's a commandment. It also isn't the truth. Snape gives him more attention than anyone he's ever met. For a moment, his thoughts drift to the words etched into his hand. _I must not tell lies._

"I bet he's vicious," Sirius continues like Harry never spoke. "Always telling you what to do."

"Yeah," Harry says what Sirius wants to hear. "He runs a strict household."

-:-

After dinner, Hermione is the first to find him. She hugs him shyly, like he's upset with her, and pulls him into the room he shares with Ron. They stand awkwardly, instead of sitting, as she looks him over. "Harry," she says with a sigh. She smells different, not bad, just different. After days of a sweaty Snape, her feminine smell is nice. "You should have changed, you know. Christmas wasn't good with Mr. Weasley getting out of the hospital and I think money's really tight." She leans closer to him, like it is the biggest secret in the world. "Ron's grown a bit and they gave him Bill's old clothes again."

"That's not my fault," Harry snaps. He shoulders past her and walks to his bed, ready to throw himself down in frustration, but stops. "Where's my bag?" He wants to yell, but his voice is even.

Hermione shakes her head, indicating that she doesn't know, and then squeaks as she jumps out of his way. "Ron!" he yells as he storms the hallway. "Ron!" He stops when out of he corner of his eye he sees a flash of red in the twins' room. Another flash of red in front of him stops his entrance. "Fred, George," he says when he realizes that he's looking at the twins and not Ron.

He thinks of the calm Mr. Weasley who gets walked all over. Then he thinks of Snape—nobody walks on Snape, nobody. His wand is in his hand the moment he steps into the room and the word comes easily. "Immobulus."

Ron's jaw slacks and he falls backward with a thud—saliva drips down his chin and his eyes scream in silent pain. Harry almost likes the look of him lying there helpless, if only because he feels powerful. He grabs his bag off Ron's lap and is relieved to see the protection charms held.

He's got his journal in there—with the name Snape gave him in it, and the words and psalm he's learning. Suddenly it feels dangerous. He's not just staying with Snape, he's sneaking around with him: learning things he shouldn't know. That Snape probably, apparently, smokes pole; that Snape's got family; Gàidhlig; psalms and god-stuff. _Ar cagar._ Our secret.

A knot forms in his throat and he struggles to breathe evenly. He clutches his bag into his chest and continues pointing his wand at his best friend's face. His secret with Snape, the world and way of life he's discovering, becoming a man, is worth losing his friendship with Ron if this is how it's going to be. _The Lord is my Shephard, I'll not want._ He drops his wand and leaves without releasing the spell.

Hermione stares at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, but makes no move to stop him. It's not obvious to her yet that she likes Ron, even though it's obvious to the rest of them. Just like Ron obviously likes her back, no matter how much he denies it. The twins have each other; Ron and Hermione will be Ron and Hermione regardless of the presence of Harry. Only Ginny has no constant companion in it all and hanging out with her is just…weird. It's like she _wants_ something from him, the way Ron _wants_ something from Hermione.

Everybody wants something from him, though. Ginny wants him in a way he doesn't want her; Ron wants him to be the younger brother, so he finally isn't in that role; Sirius wants James back, Remus probably does too; Hermione wants him to have her values, he thinks; Snape wants him to fit into his idea of what a son, or ward, should be. That's his favorite want, even though he doesn't want it to be.

He collapses in the corner of the library—somewhere no one will think to look for him—and hugs his bag close. The weight of everything is crushing. He finally gets new clothes and a place to live where he isn't starved or hit a lot and Ron acts betrayed! The person he's spent years hating steps up and proves himself capable of understanding Harry's feelings about the Dursleys and it has to be a secret.

Tears run down his cheeks but no sound leaves his lips. He's never understood how Snape could be such a miserable bastard all the time, but he can feel something similar bubbling up. Anger, isolation. The pain he's been feeling in his cheek flares because he's clenching his teeth, but it isn't unwelcome. It reminds him of home.


	7. Chapter 7

Severus watches Potter rub at his cheek for the umpteenth time, not that he's watching. Technically, he's brewing and Potter is reading, but he can see him just fine. Perhaps there's something wrong with the boy's teeth? 15 seems a little young for wisdom teeth to come in, but it's Potter—nothing is impossible. Once the reaction from the catalyst settles, he wanders over to the phone and flips through the local directory until he finds the number he's looking for.

 _"_ _Madainn mhath._ _"_

"I need to make an appointment for my son," Severus replies, too tired to translate the entire sentence.

 _"_ _Cuine?"_

"You're earliest available is fine."

 _"_ _Feasgar an-diugh. Thè e leth-uair an dèidh trì. De an t-ainm a tha air?_ _"_

"Heilyn Camshron. We'll be there at half-three. _Tapadh leibh._ " He hangs up and goes suddenly pale. They'll need Eachann's car to get to Stornoway, or he'll have to risk apparating. Eachann is the least-risky option. He picks up the phone again and dials by memory.

 _"_ _Hello?"_

Severus pauses before speaking, unsure if it's one of the grandchildren or an adult. "Madainn mhath. Eachann?"

 _"_ _This is Cormac. Uncle Severus?"_

"Yes," Severus replies smoothly. Thankfully, Cormac, like the other young ones, speaks solid English. "Ask ur seanair if I might have his car this afternoon."

 _"_ _Seanair?_ _"_ _the boy calls. "Uncle Severus needs the car."_ Severus taps his foot while he listens to the exchange. Children really are a nuisance. _"He says yes, but you aren't to leave until he's seen Heilyn."_ The line goes dead.

Severus' hand shakes slightly as he hangs up the phone. His nieces and nephews have no manners to speak of, whatsoever. If Potter ever speaks like that, he'll probably give him a good smack. Speaking of, Potter is glaring at him over his book in a way that Severus can only assume is meant to be subtle.

"We're going into town later," he calls as he returns to brewing.

-:

He and Potter apparate to the barn across from Eachann's home. It's been empty for years, more than years, a lifetime. Thankfully, the children are mindful enough not to snog… or heaven forbid shag where Eachann might catch them. Potter looks around in awe, like he's never seen a barn before. Perhaps he hasn't.

Potter acts amazed the entire walk across the street. The view is certainly gorgeous, but it is so cold Severus has it half-in-mind to run. But that would be immature.

"I love it here," Potter whispers, a stupid grin on his face despite the wind.

"Indeed."

When they enter the house, Potter hides behind him, wisely buying himself a few extra moments to compose. The house is the same as when Severus arrived for the first time 24 years ago. Sheets hang on the bannisters and atlases clutter the stairs. There are keys and hats on the entry table. Eachann and Marsali are the same—a happily married old couple. Older now, but still happy.

He takes the car keys off the table, tempted to ignore Eachann's caveat that he see Potter for a moment. Only a moment, though—he would never disrespect Athair like that. The keys find home in his jacket pocket and he leads Potter into the kitchen.

"Feasgar math, Marsali," he says when the woman reading a magazine at the table looks up at them.

"Severus," she responds quietly as she strains her neck to look around him. "That's him?"

Severus gives a single nod as he pushes Potter forward. The boy moves hesitantly and pulls at his sweater. "This is Heilyn."

Potter clears his throat and rocks up on the balls of his feet. "Hi… Mrs. Camshron."

Her eyes narrow and Severus wonders if she'll ask to be called seanmhair. It wasn't until he was fully grown that she encouraged him to call her 'Marsali.' Until then, it was Mrs. Camshron… and Mr. Camshron. The one time he'd called Eachann 'Athair' in front of her, Eachann had actually beat him.

"You may call me seanmhair, if you wish Heilyn." She smiles and then moves her gaze to the ceiling. "Eachann!"

They hear thudding on the stairs and a moment later Eachann is there. "Heilyn," he says as he pats the boy's shoulder. "Sit, sit." As he leads Potter to the table, he throws a look over his shoulder that Severus knows only too well. _Leave. I don't want you here right now._

He returns to the entryway and, on impulse, takes the stairs. During the breaks he spent here, he always shared with Alisdair, the eldest of Eachann and Marsali's children. His things never hung on the walls or occupied anything more than his trunk, so it never felt like _his_ room, but he stops in the door anyways. It's a room for the grandchildren now, but Alisdair's things still hang on the walls—his old posters and trophies, things his parents are proud of.

Potter will probably be welcome in this room; Potter's achievements will probably be praised, just like the other grandchildren. Marsali will never be warm toward him, will never forgive finding out about Eachann's love child, having to take him in, but the idea of a grandchild from Severus is removed. Potter isn't a blight on her relationship.

Lost in his thoughts, he doesn't notice Potter until it's too late to pretend he isn't staring wistfully. "It's a nice room," Potter says as he looks over Severus' shoulder.

"It isn't mine," Severus says as he pushes off the doorframe. "Hurry up."

Instead of scraping the windshield, or ordering Potter to do it, Severus waits for it to defrost. He'll have to stop for petrol anyways. His elbow rests on the window and he grips the wheel tightly. Albus adores Potter; Eachann and Marsali adore Potter. Potter, Potter, Potter. He pulls the car out and notices the book in Potter's lap. A present?

The roads wind and aren't always clearly marked, but the drive is thoughtless. Potter's face is pressed against the window, quietly observing. "I'm taking you to the dentist," Severus says.

"Why?"

"Your face is clearly bothering you," He slows to accommodate a few children playing in the street. They move out of his way quickly, politely. "When did you last see a dentist?"

Potter shrugs and runs his finger over the book's spine. "I haven't, ever." He clears his throat. "Whose room was that?"

Severus grips the wheel tighter, his knuckles white, and swallows his desire to reprimand Potter for asking. "Alisdair's. I shared with him whenever I was here."

"Then it was your room too."

"Hardly. I only slept there." He frowns, overwhelmed with an odd thought. He's not let Potter decorate, mostly because it would be an invasion of his personal space. That room is his office, not the bedroom of a teenager. "I will not permit anything childish, but if you would like to hang a poster in your room I suppose that would be acceptable."

The typical stupid grin appears on Potter's face and he raises his hand, subconsciously, to his cheek. "I don't really know any bands. Do you have a… a turntable, or anything?" Severus nods. "Who's your favorite?"

"Fleetwood Mac."

Potter returns to pressing his face against the window. "You'll have to show me sometime."

They're in Stornoway after just half-an-hour, and Potter, very unfortunately, calls out each church as they pass it. He parks the car and waits for Potter to say something. The boy's always got something to say, after all.

"Is he going to hurt me?" Potter whispers.

A rational fear. Severus himself never saw a dentist until he needed his wisdom teeth removed. His parents weren't the type to fund 'unnecessary' things, like doctors and dentists. Tobias only ever funded his own drinking and smoking.

"You will doubtless need crowns, fillings, and your wisdom teeth removed. I'm not sure if he'll feel comfortable doing it all at once. And yes, it will hurt for days, but oral care is necessary." He scowls, for once regretting that it sounds like he's lecturing. "You'll be fine." He practically jumps out of the car, not interested in comforting Potter anymore than he already has.

He doesn't wait to be sure that Potter is coming and goes straight in. "Feasgar math, seo tha Heilyn Camshron."

"Aye, Heilyn Camshron," the secretary repeats as he hands over a clipboard. "Yer son?"

Severus holds it in a firm grip and stares at it. Playing daddy to Potter hasn't felt real up until this point, but as he fills in information for _his_ son, he has to withhold a shudder. "Aye," he says. Potter seats himself with a thud in the chair next to the surgery, but Severus cannot stand to look at him long enough to yell. He quickly fills out the paperwork, returns it to the secretary, and takes the time to look him over—decently tall, muscular, nice lips. A blush rises in his cheeks and he turns on his heel. It's Lewis, there aren't any other queers… at least not any that aren't self-loathing and closeted.

The secretary looks up at him every-now-and-then and Severus realizes he's hovering. "Ciamar a tha sibh?" He asks the younger man, as if it's going to make this less awkward.

"Guid," the secretary says as he leans his elbows on the desk. "I'm Luag, by the wey. Wha are you?"

"Severus," he replies slowly. "It's a pleasure, Loo-ak." Luag: it's a nice name, a name that feels foreign on his lips. The dentist takes Potter back with little fuss and Severus is glad to be rid of him. "Are you from the mainland?" he asks.

Luag nods as he runs his finger over the days date in the appointment book. "Aye. You wantin a cuppa?"

"That would be lovely," Severus gives the best smile he can manage.

-:

£244.30 later, he's got a partially sedated Potter curled up in the passenger seat. The boy needed four fillings and two crowns, which they'll have to come back for in a few days. Until then, it's temporaries. The tooth decay explains away all the irritation in Potter's face, and the headaches.

He drives home first, in silence. "Heilyn?" When the boy doesn't answer, he walks around to the other side of the car and drags Potter out. Potter walks with him, a little uneasy on his feet but mostly fine.

"Hurts," Potter mutters.

"I know," Severus says as he pulls back the bed sheets. He settles Potter under the sheets and the boy grips his shirt tightly. "In the twinkling of an eye, in a moment, all is changed," he says.

Used to being put to sleep this way, Potter lets go and curls up. "Good boy." Severus settles into his usual place on the edge of the mattress. "In the twinkling of an eye, in a moment, all is changed: on a small radiant screen (honeydew melon green) are my scintillating bones. Still in my flesh I see the God who goes with me glowing with radioactive isotopes. This is what he at last allows a mortal eye to behold: the grand supporting frame complete (but for the wisdom teeth), the friend who lives beneath appearances, alive with light. Each glittering bone assures me: you are known."

Potter is asleep before he finishes.

-:

It isn't until he arrives at Eachann's house that he notices that book Potter was holding earlier sitting on the seat. He tucks in into his inside jacket pocket and hurries into the house. He needs to give the car back and get home before Potter thinks about getting himself into any trouble. He drops the keys on the table and yells, "Car's back," before hurrying toward the door.

"Severus!" Eachann growls.

He stops just short of the door and hunches his shoulders up. Whatever argument they're about to have regarding Potter is not going to go well. "Sir?"

Eachann scowls and leans against the opposite wall. "How is the boy?"

"He needed his teeth fixed and is naturally sore from all the work he had done today." Severus folds his hands behind his back and clears his throat. "Anything else?"

"No."

Severus storms the entire walk to the barn. He can't stand being jealous of Potter, but there it is. Eachann doesn't care how he is, just how Potter is. Severus is disposable; Potter is important. If only he could bring himself to punish the boy for it.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry watches Snape all day—what he does, how he moves. The man never stops moving! He grades, he brews, he checks that Harry's mouth isn't bothering him too much, he cleans. He interacts with the house unlike Sirius, who lives somewhere he doesn't take care of.

Every now and then, a look of something, resentment or loathing, crosses Snape's features and Harry thinks the man will take it out on him. He knows what it is, knows it intimately. Snape doesn't have anybody. Just like Harry didn't have anybody, but now he does. He groans as he rests his head onto the sofa's armrest. His whole face hurts worse than it used to, everything is a little loopy because of the drugs. Despite the pain and drugs, a small part of him thinks he's received a second Christmas present. Snape stepped up for him.

He takes a sip out of the water Snape left for him and almost cries when it drips out of his mouth and down his chin. While he might not mind feeling like a little boy whose daddy had to take him to the dentist, he does mind feeling like a stupid little boy. He tries the water again only to be left with the same result.

"Snape!" He calls. "Snaaape!"

"'S e plàigh a th' annad," Snape replies as he seats himself on the edge of the table in front of Harry.

Harry pouts—this is Snape's favorite phrase and he can't figure it out. "I'm a… I'm a plàigh? What does that mean?" His hand drifts to his cheek when no reply comes from Snape. "You're mean."

"Indeed."

Snape huffs as he retrieves a handkerchief from his pocket. The closer it comes to Harry's mouth, the further he moves from Snape. "No," he whines. "Wipe m'ow mouf." But Snape doesn't listen. In one movement, he draws the handkerchief across Harry's chin and all the spilt water is gone.

"There," Snape says softly, "Would you like some broth?"

Harry nods as he rests his head back against the sofa. His words don't want to make sense. It's the drugs…or Snape gave him a potion. No, his Snape is a good caretaker. He watches Snape putter around the kitchen, pulling things out of cabinets, putting things on the stove. He can't help but wonder if Sirius would be able to cook him something to eat after having his teeth done. Mrs. Weasley would probably have to do it—because that seems to be how things go. She does all the cooking, and a lot of the cleaning, and it's always Ginny that gets asked to help. Sexist, that's what it is. Sirius should do more.

He sways when he stands—what the hell could they possibly have given him?—and stumbles his way to the kitchen. "I'll help," he says as he pats the fridge, looking for the handle. Snape's hand closes around his shoulder and pushes him toward the table, but Harry manages to remain facing the fridge. "Wanna help!"

Snape pulls him with more force and drags him toward the table. "And I," he says as he settles Harry into a seat, "would like for you to stay still until that bloody laughing gas they gave you wears off."

"M'kay," Harry says as he rests his head on the table. He traces his finger over the patterns in the wood while listening to the man cook. Snape moves quietly on his feet—it's no small wonder that he sneaks up on his students so successfully. Harry knows, without looking, that Snape is cooking him something to eat and finishing the brew he's been working on. "D'you brew whiskey?" he asks.

"Whiskey gets distilled, a-ghlaoic."

Harry doesn't need to think about what a'dhl'eek means. "I'm not an idiot," he responds automatically.

Snape chuckles. "10 points to Gryffindor for a correct translation, then."

10 points to…during break when it doesn't count…not fair! Harry thinks to turn and tell Snape as much, but the most he manages is a pout. It was just a question. How would he know about whiskey and…stuff.

"Would you like to learn the word for whiskey?" Snape asks over the hissing of his potion coming to boil. "Uisge-beatha. Oosk-ah bea'ah."

"Uisge-beatha," Harry repeats. He looks up when a bowl of steaming-hot chicken broth is place in front of him. As he picks up the spoon, he prays that he'll be able to keep the broth from running down his chin. The last thing he needs is for Snape to wipe up his mess again.

Snape sits across from him with his own bowl of broth and a slice of buttered bread. It's not a lot to eat. For Harry it's only a good meal because he can't really eat. A grown man should have more. Snape eats like he's enjoying every bite, even though it's only broth. Harry should have noticed this before—how Snape eats every meal like he might never get another. It's the way Harry eats the first few days at Hogwarts after summer break. He knows Snape was beat a lot as a kid, but it hadn't dawned on him that Snape was probably also starved. Continuously, for years, if the way he still eats is anything to go by.

About half-way through his bowl, Snape sets his spoon down and focuses on Harry. "The phrase uisge-beatha means 'life water.' Whiskey, around here, is the water of life, so-to-speak. I find it to be rather amusing."

"Me too," Harry says with a grin. The broth that had just been in his mouth trickles down his chin and he smacks his napkin up to cover it. "Ugh!" A smirk adorns Snape's lips, but instead of saying something, he continues eating. "Tell a story?" Harry asks quietly. He doesn't know why he's dared to ask—it must be the special gas. Usually, he wouldn't dare ask for something like that. Usually, Snape wouldn't humor him.

"A story?" Snape asks between bites. "About your mother?"

Harry shakes his head no, even though he's terribly surprised Snape offered. "You," he says. "About you. It can be anything."

Snape seems to consider it while he finishes eating, but he looks unpleasant. The silence stretches on, though that's not abnormal at meal times. Snape likes to be left alone. Harry wonders what Snape will tell him—if it will be a happy story, or a tragic one. He'd be okay with either. If he were to go telling stories about his life, they'd be pretty dark, after all.

"I suppose," Snape begins. He flicks his hair over his shoulder twice before thinking better of it and tying it up. It looks better up. His face looks…softer with it up, less harsh. "I was about your age, yes. I spent the first two days of my Christmas break at the Black home in 1976. As you may know, the Blacks were a notoriously dark family. Your godfather no longer lived with them. Which worked out well as I was there to attend a dinner at the request of his younger brother, Regulus. Regulus was a year younger, but exceptionally bright. He had a passion for history."

There's a natural pause and already Harry has something big to think about. Sirius has a brother. Is headquarters safe if Sirius has a brother? Or could they be attacked?

"Regulus let me borrow his spare dress robes," Snape continues, "as mine were…inappropriate to the occasion to say the least. They weren't ratty, exactly. Many of the clothes I've passed along to you I had then. But the Blacks are a high society family. I was off in an alcove, avoiding people after a solid hour of socialization—soirees are not my thing—when I met the most interesting man. Tom Riddle."

This pause is clearly not natural and Harry wonders if Snape is waiting for permission to continue. Harry might be about to learn how his dad…professor became a Death Eater. Or it could just be an unrelated story. "And?"

Snape considers him a long moment before continuing. "He sought me out. My talent with potions was not appreciated, least of all by my head of house, but I had applied to start my mastery. We went to one of the drawing rooms for a chat and he told me he believed in me. He told me that someday I would be great and he'd be proud to see it."

He leans across the table and Harry mirrors to meet him at the center. "I cried," Snape whispers. "I was raised to believe that men do not cry and expected punishment, so I ran. I ran up to Regulus' room with tears streaming down my face, believing I would die of embarrassment. The Dark Lord found me sitting against the bedframe, drying my tears."

"Did he hurt you?" Harry asks, even though he knows he shouldn't interrupt.

"No," Snape says with snort. "He told me he'd built a place in the new order for half-bloods like us. That I could be the most respected and winningest potions master in Europe, if I could just trust his new order. He patted me on the head and told me to work hard. A few hours later, Regulus came up. He kissed me goodnight and said that he'd been highly honored for bringing me to meet his parents' master. That was the first time I kissed a boy, but I'd kissed your mother a few times before that."

Seemingly done, Snape leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his chest. Harry has so many questions! Were the Blacks nice to him? Did he date Lily Evans? Did he date Regulus? Are he and Voldemort close? None of that is what he says though.

"Did you?" he asks. Snape scowls. "Did you become the best potions master in Europe?"

Snape raises an eyebrow. "Depends on who you ask."

Harry smiles. Next time someone asks about his parents, he can brag about Snape—the way everyone else brags. "I bet you are. I bet you're wasted at Hogwarts. You should write textbooks."

"What's to say I haven't?"

Harry shrugs and can't quite wipe the grin off his face. "Well can I read them?"

Snape raises the other eyebrow and looks sincerely shocked. "You…want to read what I've written? About potions?"

"About everything," Harry whispers. Snape doesn't say anything, just nods with his mouth slightly agape.

-:

Unlike most mornings, when he wakes he does not immediately get up. Instead, he studies his room. His room. Snape said so, while he was loopy. He has permission to put up a single poster, but he's not sure what it ought to be of. He doesn't know any bands and he should really be careful to only put up Muggle sports posters, but he has permission! The desk and bed table are almost level with his eyes and it's a little cramped. His trunk, Snape's trunk, fits snugly at the foot of the bed. This was Snape's space, but like everything else, the man's given it over without a second thought.

He's never thought he needed much to be happy. The Dursleys have never given him anything. Sirius gives him nice things, but only items he approves of. He'd trade his firebolt for this room any day. A book on his bedtable catches his attention and he reaches his finger out to trace it. It's a bible, courtesy of Eachann, his Seanair. His grandfather—that feels so incredible to say. He's even going to read it, from beginning to end.

The sounds of a potions explosion reverberates up the stairs and shakes his bed. Snape's not screaming in pain, just swearing some of the funny phrases that are in his old journal. "Bod an Donais!" Is the one he yells over and over. Harry knows it to mean _Devil's Penis,_ which in and of itself is an exceptionally hilarious thing to say. He pulls on the shorts and jeans he wore yesterday and a clean shirt and sweater. On the walk downstairs, the idea to grow his hair out comes again—he's done looking like James Potter. It's done him no good. The Dursleys hate his messy hair; Snape can't stand his looks; his other professors think he looks messy; Sirius probably only loves him because he looks so much like James. He might not look like Snape with longer hair, but at least he'd look like something other than a clone.

It looks like the kitchen's been blown to bits and he almost laughs. Surely Snape was experimenting with something, but it looks like the sort of mess Neville might make. Snape leans against the fridge, face colored from the explosion, looking shocked. The sound Harry makes can only be described as a giggle. "Do you need help?" he asks.

Snape nods slowly and blinks at a disturbing frequency. Harry moves until he is right in front of the man and looks up at him. "Sir?" No response. "Dad?"

"I'm fine Heilyn," Snape snaps. He glares down at Harry for a minute before pushing off the fridge. "I merely underestimated the volatility of the reaction between the mugwort and asp scales." With the flick of his wand, the remnants of the potion are banished. After another flick, the majority of the damage is repaired. All that's left is the floor.

Harry bites his lip as he takes in the piles of goop that have to be cleaned by hand—it's not bad, he can probably have it done in an hour if he works hard. "I'll clean up," he offers. He goes around Snape and pulls the bucket out from under the sink. While it fills with water, he hums to keep his mind off being hungry. Today it will be hot cereal again, same as every day, and tea, but he's not complaining. Even if it is boring, Snape never forgets to feed him.

He wets a rag in the bucket and drops to his knees to scrub. The floor creaks a little as Snape walks on it, but he doesn't walk toward the stairs. He drops down next to Harry and soaks his own rag before joining him in cleaning. Harry wants to tell Snape to go shower—he needs one—but knows that he should just respect the man's authority instead.

They clean in silence, caring for this little place that Harry would dare say is their home.


	9. Chapter 9

Severus focuses on the feel of the cold floor under his knees. His elbows rest on the thin blankets that cover his bed. It's small, the same size as Potter's, and not large enough for two. As if there's ever been anyone that might make two. His throbbing erection presses painfully into his trousers and he starts his prayer again.

"Be merciful to me, O God, because of your constant love. Because of your great mercy wipe away my sins. Wash away all my evil and make me clean from my sin."

The sound of Potter's meek snores invades his thoughts and his body trembles. He only thought it for a moment, that relieving his needs via the boy might not be so bad, but a moment was long enough. "I am not Tobias!" he growls as the forbidden image of Potter on his knees flashes through his mind. "Be merciful to me, O God!" He runs his hands through his hair, pulls at every strand he can reach to inflict the most pain. "Because of your constant love. Because of your great mercy."

His magic swells around him, shaking everything it comes into contact with and a tear runs down his cheek. He is not Tobias. Bits of ceiling drop into his hair and onto the sheets under the strain of the shaking. "Wash away all my evil," he whispers. But it is not an evil the Lord can wash away. The thought never should have happened. It's not right. He knows it's not right. But maybe it wasn't so bad. Maybe all those times Tobias touched him were just the events necessary to build him into the man he is. And that's the crux of it.

To categorically state that molestation is wrong, evil, he must also acknowledge his childhood as wrong and evil. A little boy should not be wrapped up in such evil. "I have been evil from the day I was born," he skips a few lines in the prayer. "From the time I was conceived, I have been sinful." He draws in a shaky breath and rests his head in his hands.

Potter should be sent back to London, for his own good. Before he gets hurt. Before Severus does something he can't take back. There are enough people in the world that love Potter—one of them can take him. He listens for Potter's snores, having decided to tell him immediately, but they're gone. Which means….

He snaps his head in the direction of the door and feels his stomach drop. There Potter stands, playing with his hair, half awake. "I thought there was an earthquake," he mutters.

Severus returns to looking at his hands like he's alone again. "Be merciful to me, O God, because of your constant love. Because of your great mercy wipe away my sins. Wash away all evil and make me clean from my sin. I recognize my faults; I am always conscious of my sins." He is aware of the thud of Potter's knees hitting the floor, but pushes it as far away from himself as he can. "I have sinned against you—only against you—and done what you consider evil. So you are right in judging me; you are justified in condemning me. I have been evil from the day I was born; from the time I was conceived, I have been sinful." He draws a blank and skips whatever comes next for what he can remember. "Spare my life, O God, and save me." More ceiling dust drops on them and now Potter is as dirty with his transgression as he is. "And I will gladly proclaim your righteousness. Help me to speak, Lord, and I will praise you."

"Amen," Potter interjects before Severus can think of any other part of the prayer. "I had a dream," he whispers, "I was…I was torturing someone. At first it was Ron. He was on the ground shaking, screaming. And then it was Sirius. But he wasn't screaming, he was feral like a dog, foaming at the mouth." He draws in a sharp breath. "Then it was Vernon."

Potter leans forward until his head is resting on the bed. "As soon as it was Vernon I had to wake up because it no longer felt like a bad dream. It felt like a wish. Like maybe I wanted to hurt them all for real. It was only for a minute," he whispers. "I only thought it for a minute."

Severus nods slowly and attempts to put some focus into Potter's problem. He's never noticed a sadistic side to Potter. Wanting to hurt Vernon is acceptable. But wanting to hurt the Weasley boy and Black? It's almost as absurd as Severus picturing himself molesting Potter. "I think," he begins. "I think we need to remember the things that have made us who we are."

He sits back on his heels and tries not to stare at Potter's gently shaking shoulders. No boy should be dealing with this. This boy should not have to face the darkness of what he's gone through so soon. "You've been hurt, Heilyn. It's okay to want to hurt others in return. So long as you pray about it instead of acting on it."

"I need you to teach me," Potter says. "Teach me to pray and be good."

"I can't teach you to be good," Severus chokes out a laugh. "I. Can only teach you how to drown in guilt and punish yourself. You silly little boy."

Potter wipes at the snot on his face with the back of his hand as he copies Severus' position. "Then teach me how to pray and what to do when I have these thoughts." A small sob escapes his lips. "I don't want to hurt." His shoulders start to shake again and Severus realizes there will not be a quick end to this.

He places his hand gently on the boy's back and focuses on not removing it out of discomfort. People don't touch Severus Snape; People don't want to be touched by Severus Snape. He's adjusted to that. They stay still, with Severus' hand on Potter's back, until the boy hushes. Potter's shoulders slump and he lets out something of a mewl.

"Heilyn?" Severus hisses.

"M'tired."

Severus stands the boy up with as little physical contact as possible and drags him back to his room. He holds back the covers while Potter climbs in and takes his glasses before arranging the blanket as he usually does. His earlier notions of sending Potter away are gone. The boy is too fragile. Someone like Black will harm him beyond repair, drive him into the hermitical life Severus is so accustomed to.

"Good night."

The smallest of whispers comes in reply. "Night dad."

A/N: short chapter, but a little intense. It has dawned on me that I did not give the names/authors of the poems used so I'll be posting them at the end now. Still backlogging.

I. Auden

II. Auden

III. Chp. 4: "Snow in Europe" by David Gascoyne

IV. Chp. 7: "Bone Scan" by Gwen Harwood


	10. Chapter 10

He wakes after having the dream again, the one where he's torturing people: Ron is always first, then Sirius, then Vernon. They scream, but its not real screaming. Real screaming makes his gut clench and his heart pound. The sounds they make put a warm feeling in his stomach, not a nice feeling, but a warm one. He begins the prayer Snape taught him instantly—begging for forgiveness, proclaiming that he's evil. It helps.

Everything is quiet, meaning Snape is asleep for once. He slides into his slippers and shuffles down the stairs, careful not to cause any creaking. The kitchen is cold and dark, but orderly. He chews on his bottom lip as he surveys the cereal options. For days he's thought there was only a box of Cheerios. But now that he's looking closely, there's something else. He moves the Cheerios box out of the way and stares down at the brightly-colored box lying behind it. Cap'n Crunch.

He snatches the box and tears it open before plunging his hand in and pulling out a handful of pieces. His hand shakes as he brings them to his mouth. They aren't something he's ever thought to covet before. Ice cream, yes; Children's cereal, no. He chews slowly, savoring the taste, withholding the moan begging to be released. Instead of continuing to eat the cereal by hand, he pours out a bowl and puts just enough milk in it to have milk, but not enough to make it soggy. A creak from the stairs catches his attention and he whips around, spoon hanging out of his mouth. He drops the spoon, suddenly guilty, though why he's not sure. Should he feel guilty for eating it without permission? Or for abusing Snape's kindness? Is he abusing Snape's kindness?

"Morning, sir," he whispers.

"Not really," Snape responds too quickly.

Harry frowns as he notices that the man is in full robes. At 2 in the morning. "Are you leaving?" He absentmindedly eats another bite while waiting for an answer. It's not fair. Snape was asleep for once, and now he has to leave, just like that. "Its not Dumbledore, is it?"

"Most assuredly not." Snape growls and crosses his arms over his chest, protecting himself. "The Dark Lord has called me. I can only imagine what we'll be getting up to." His voice drops to a whisper. "Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world. Now could I drink hot blood, and do such bitter business as the day would quake to look on."

"Poetry?"

"Shakespeare, a-ghlaoic. Hamlet."

Harry half-nods, lip back between his teeth. "You don't sound upset. The opposite really."

Snape blinks a few times, like he usually does when trying to come up with the right thing to say, the adult thing to say. "The things that are bad for us are usually addictive. Alcohol, cigarettes, violence. Sugar."

The spoon hangs from Harry's lips as he freezes. It's a joke. The last part is a joke. The first part, alcohol, cigarettes, violence, all at once it is something Harry understands and something he thinks he shouldn't have heard. "I can't stand the smell of blood," he says for no reason. "Passed out in a pool of it one time too many."

"Logical," Snape mutters. "I felt that way once. When I was wee. But blood, the flow of blood, the temperature of blood, I can control that." He swallows and his adam's apple juts out uncomfortably. "Tarraing fala, bloodletting, has many spiritual and magical purposes. It is speculated that the Roman Emperor Hadrian's lover, Antinous, died while they were in Egypt due to bloodletting. It was not abnormal for Egyptian wives to engage in bloodletting for the health and safety of their husbands. Bloodletting produces particularly strong protection charms, but can be used for other purposes." He pauses like there's something else that needs to be said.

"Okay." Harry takes another bite, the wheels in his head turning. "Are you gonna be back?"

Snape's mouth falls open as he reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Bod an Donais." This early in the morning, his voice is deeper than normal, scratchy. He shuffles to the phone, his left arm clenched and fisted, and writes on a paper pad with a shaky hand. "I don't have time to get you to head-quarters. I should have left already. This is Eachann's number. You know how to dial emergency." He ruffles Harry's hair as he passes. "Be good Heilyn."

Harry eats the rest of his cereal slowly, rooted to the spot. He'll be home alone for the weekend, unless Snape comes back. He can't keep his eyes off the phone. What if he calls his seanair for company, not because something's wrong? Isn't that what people usually do? He won't be spending New Year's alone that way. And he can probably meet his cousins. But most importantly, he'll get to stay home until the first day of term.

-:-

He eats his bowl of oatmeal in a chair next to the phone, counting down the minutes until it is a polite time to call. Petunia had taught him from a young age that proper life does not start before 9am. He runs through what he's going to say again. _Dad got called back to work for an emergency and Mom's out of town, so I'm home alone. Do you think I can come over?_ That should cover Snape being gone.

The clock strikes 9 and he picks up the phone, oatmeal practically tossed on the counter. It rings twice.

 _"_ _Halo_ _?"_

"Uh, Seanair? This is Heilyn."

 _"_ _Madainn mhath, Heilyn. Ciamar a tha sibh?_ _"_

"Madainn mhath, Seanair. I'm still working on my Gàidhlig. I don't know what that means."

 _"_ _How are you child?"_

"Good, oh wait…." He knows this one! It's in Snape's book. "Tha mi gu math."

 _"_ _Good job."_

He can't help the grin that fills his face. "Sir, I was wondering if I could come over for a bit. M 'athair had to go to London for an emergency. And my mum's out of town."

 _"_ _Aye. We are_ _còcaireachd_ _uh, how do you say, cooking. For Hogmanay. I come at_ _sia uairean sa oidhche._ _"_

Sia? "Is that six?"

 _"_ _Aye._ _Tapaidh leibh._ _"_

"Tap-ah leave."

His grin falters only slightly. That's 10 hours he has to entertain himself!

He drags his feet up the stairs, trying to figure out what he can do with the time. Clean? No, he and Snape do enough of that. Read? Study? Drink? Nothing sounds enjoyable. On a whim, he pops his head into Snape's room. It's wrong to be in there, a violation of privacy, but it makes him feel less alone. He runs his finger over the side table, careful not to touch the old book. It's probably got magic in it—the words look like words that are in spells. Veneficus ius. Vetus sedes anguis. It's something you could chant.

Next to it is a silver cross pendant on a chain and a nice watch. He bypasses the cross. The look of the watch is sophisticated, a silver exterior with gold accents, little circles on the face with their own hands. He doesn't know what those are for. It's probably the single most expensive thing in the entire house. He holds it gently in his hands, turns it around slowly. Inscribed on the back is a date: _30 June 1978_. Snape graduated Hogwarts in 1977, so it's not that. His mastery maybe? It would be about the time that picture in his trunk was taken. He tries the watch on, slowly and carefully so as not to hurt it. It's too big, but it feels great. Very adult.

He puts it back and continues poking around. It really is the only nice thing though. The hamper in the corner is falling apart; the table that all of his papers are on has a book propping up one of the legs; a few of the drawers are pulled out, their handles missing. It's a mess.

Every muscle in his face tightens as he gets closer to the hamper. Its fucking rancid! They can't both be teenage boys. He drags the hamper down to the washer and throws the clothes in by the handful. The shorts have holes in them, just like Harry's own shorts have holes in them. He pushes up on the door, trying to get it closed, before realizing that the piece of wood he had to move from between the door and the adjacent cabinet was there for a reason. The piece of wood goes back into place only after a lot of shoving and wiggling. The washer shakes wildly, but starts all the same. He pads over to the pile of peat and takes another one for the fire.

Ideas come and go on how to fix the dresser as he carefully moves all of the paperwork from the makeshift desk to the bed. If he had spare wood, a saw, and a drill, he could probably manage some sort of solution. But the desk situation can be rectified immediately. He moves his books and papers off the desk in his room, sad to see it go, but it really does belong in Snape's room. He pulls it into the hall, cringing at the sound it makes on the floor. The floor's trashed anyways. He leaves it next to the loo while moving the other one out of Snape's room and into his.

As soon as the switch is complete, Harry collapses onto his bed. He doesn't have time to sleep—he still needs to get Snape's clothes hung up to dry, something cooked for dinner, and the downstairs tidied up before he can think about doing something relaxing. His eyes flutter shut for what's only supposed to be a minute.

-:-

Harry checks his reflection in the mirror again. His hair is tidy and he's dressed in layers to fend off the cold. 6 o'clock comes, but no knocking comes with it. The entryway is spotless. He can't have Eachann thinking Snape's a lacking father. At long last, a car horn sounds. That's it? No knock at the door? He holds his head high on the walk to the car and greets Eachann politely. "Oidhche mhath."

"Oidhche mhath, Heilyn."

Eachann makes no other attempt at conversation, so neither does Harry. Instead, he focuses on where they're going. Just in case nobody remembers to take him home. It would be a shitty walk, but he'd do it. He follows Eachann inside and finds himself surrounded by strangers.

He's instantly light-headed and confused. Only a few words are familiar, but even then the definitions do not come easy. Eachann's disappeared, people are talking at him, pointing. His feet land hard on the steps as he runs toward the room upstairs he's expecting to be unoccupied—Snape's old room. The door slams shut behind him.

In his peripheral, he sees movement and reaches for his wand on instinct. It isn't there, in his pocket where it should be. He wouldn't dare bring it here. He gulps and clenches his fists as he turns toward it. It's a boy! His fists release as he takes the other boy in. Messy red hair, soft red, not Weasley red, eyebrow piercing, sitting up against the wall with his left knee popping out of the hole in his black jeans with a bottle of whiskey in his hands.

"Hi," Harry whispers.

"British?"

"That obvious? I'm Heilyn."

"Fionnlagh." He takes a long drink of the whiskey before patting the floor next to him. "Me ma keeps saying Eachann's bastard's bastard. You innit?"

Harry nods as he plops down, repeating the name in his mind. Fee-own-lak. He shouldn't drink. It might give Eachann the wrong idea. Not that Eachann is paying attention to him. "We're not cousins are we?" he asks with a laugh.

"Ack!" Fionnlagh's laugh is rich, sweet. "No! The Camshrons are neighbors." He taps Harry's thigh with the bottle until Harry takes it and humors him with a drink. "Spent some time in London me self. Dirty."

Once the whiskey crosses his lips, he can't stop drinking it. Laughter and smiling come easy. Being with Fionnlagh is easy. 7 o'clock becomes 11 o'clock and they can no longer hide. He holds Fionnlagh up as they stumble downstairs and join the festivities. They join the other boys outside and walk a ways before building a small structure for what is to come, the word on everyone's lips: fire.

As cold as he is, he does not shiver. Doing this, being a part of this, is magical. It's only a shame Snape had to leave. When midnight finally comes they light their bonfire and Fionnlagh pulls him away. There's something broken in his eyes, but the smile is still on his face.

"Go tell Eachann you've enjoyed it. We'll go to yours."

His. Harry's throat dries out. He and his new friend are going to have a sleepover. While Snape's out of town. "Okay!"

-:-

Harry wakes slowly, with each breath telling himself that he won't vomit. Snape's going to be pissed! After the long walk home the night before, they'd eaten pretty much everything they could find and enjoyed another two bottles of whiskey.

"Fin?"

A grunt comes in return.

He rolls over, away from the wall so that he's facing Fionnlagh. The other boy is sprawled out on his back, arm over his eyes. It is only now that the lighting is right for Harry to notice the faded bruising on his cheek. That's always how it looks when your dad hits you. Or your uncle.

"Happy New Year, Fin," he whispers before drifting back to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Severus wakes with his head propped on an arm and a body pressed against him, caked in dry blood. It was their typical ritual, albeit from a lifetime ago. They would begin with a hunt, a selection of targets meant to seem random when it was anything but. It was always three boys, teenagers on the cusp of puberty. How old had they been this time? 12? 13? With each ritual, they grew younger, and he wondered what age the youth of today would level off at. He'd hesitated with the oldest one, seeing Heilyn in his features. Perhaps it's time to admit that the boy has wormed his way in too far. Nothing can give him moral pause, it isn't safe. Worse yet the Dark Lord had noticed.

He places his hand gently on his master, gives a gentle squeeze. Human. Or as human as he had been before his fall. And naked. They both are, but there are parts of the ritual he never remembers. He's not sure he wants to. Lost in the madness of blood magic, he would probably be capable of anything.

The Dark Lord rubs his chest, awakening the rest of his body, his magic. The stench becomes apparent then. Three decimated teenaged bodies chopped into pieces by his hand lay scattered about. Death came as kindness to them, but it was not the end. No, the Dark Lord needs them dead for the truly vile part.

The Dark Lord's arm remains wrapped around his waist as he sits. He should not have. They lie in a small dry circle surrounded by a larger circle of blood, like a bullseye. It's both sickening and arousing. He rubs his hands on his legs, to both self-soothe and rub off the dried blood. How many hours will he have to spend on his knees praying to feel even remotely absolved of this travesty?

"You were magnificent," the Dark Lord says as he sits. His legs are ungodly pale, paler than Severus', and long. Long enough to put the body at close to 7 feet tall. His pitch black hair has filled back in as well, easing the sharp lines of his face into something recognizable.

"Incredible," Severus whispers.

"Was it different, pet? You have a boy now."

"The boy is soft, too much like his mother." He hunches his shoulders up as a finger trails down his spine.

He lets the Dark Lord pull him back down and relaxes instantly. For the moment, he's safe and needs only to focus on resting before the next stage of the ritual. Not for the first time, he's thankful he found a way to let go of his hatred of Potter. Even if the boy does irritate the shit out of him, his memories can show nothing but paternal fondness.

"He wishes to please me," he continues. "At 15 he is highly impressionable, as was I."

"And tell me Severus, is it possible to please you? I've certainly never seen anyone manage it."

He doesn't bother to hide his face as he nods. "I have standards. They simply need to be met."

"Curious thing, his age."

"Curious that I knocked a girl up at 19?" Severus chuckles. In the last few years of his teens he'd had more sexual partners than he could count. Anyone he could put his cock in really. "Curious that she didn't want me in his life?"

The Dark Lord snorts and Severus smiles at the absurdity of it. For a moment it is easy to forget the carnage surrounding them. "No, I suppose not."

He pictures the woman he's selected from his memory as Heilyn's mother. It was early October 1979 and she was a bombshell. Lorraine. No last name that he could remember. She was almost the same height as him, skinny, small tits, tight. The weekend they'd spent together was one to remember. She was perfect—well enough known to him to supplant details—English-born, well-educated, kind—but obscure enough to maintain an easy distance. He rests his eyes for just a moment, to relieve some of the strain from the ritual, and slips off before he can fight it.

-:

He wakes to his master buried inside him. The thrusts are deep and slow, in a way that's not meant to bother him. He moves his fingers only just and finds them coated in something liquid and viscous. The Dark Lord is blood-letting, he concludes. Every ritual he has the same question—am I allowed to enjoy this?—but the answer feels different now. He places his hand on his master's hip to encourage him to stay on the spot he's hitting. It's not the best he's ever had, but it's nice to be touched.

"Is it too painful for you?" the Dark Lord asks as he stops moving.

"No. Stay there. Harder."

The next thrust draws a groan from his lips. As he relaxes and gives himself over to the pleasure, it becomes incredible. What the Dark Lord lacks in knowledge and experience, he certainly makes up for in length and girth. Unwilling to ask for help, he strokes himself to completion just before the other man pulls out.

Technically his part is done. He's served as a magical conduit, enabled the ritual. There's no technical reason to stay, but he's hardly inclined to move. He stretches out on his stomach, thinking about what excuse he'll give Albus for not returning Potter on time, and watches.

The Dark Lord casts at the body of the youngest boy from a distance, mutilating and charring what's left of him. The stench is awful, but not quite as awful as watching him peel off and eat the skin. Severus knows it's miserably chewy, human flesh. He'd wanted to experience it the first time. The boy he'd partaken in the flesh of had screamed all throughout his torture—the rape, the crucios—and hadn't gone into shock like most did. Still would up in the hysteria of blood magic, he'd eaten, unbothered by the taste and gaminess. Hours later he'd vomited and promptly passed out.

But that isn't worth thinking about. He pictures Albus, dressed in horridly colored robes, sitting behind his desk. They'll discuss how important it is that Potter not be influenced by Black's unruliness, despite it being important that Potter has paternal love. How Severus will never be capable of filling that role for anyone. How damaged he is. They should discuss how damaged Potter is. How the boy is willing to take any affection and discipline as good for him. How the boy wants to be taken care of no matter the price.

He slips back to sleep.

-:

Same as last time it takes him a full two days to recover from the blood loss and magical depletion. Unlike last time, his master checks on him constantly. He focuses on his mental shields as he fastens his trousers. He's been out of it the past few days, unable to fully protect his thoughts, but he knows he hasn't sold out the boy. For just a moment, he thinks it must be fondness that returns the Dark Lord to his chambers for checkups. But that's absurd!

He nods to his master, quite almost definable as a man now, as he goes for the floo, and tries to ignore the looks his fellow Death Eaters give him. Lucius is calculating, what he's unsure. Avery and Bellatrix look jealous, hurt even. They can't possibly know that the sacred ritual, which he must never speak the name of, only works between partners of the same blood status. Something to do with pureblood families attempting to protect the line, he's not sure.

A floo trip to Spinner's End and an apparation later, he's back home, less than enthusiastic to see what the boy's been up to. The smell of peat fills him as he quietly enters and listens closely, hoping to hear where Potter is before looking around. Nothing. Everything is clean and in good order until he gets to the kitchen. Though clean enough, a quick scan tells him another grocery run is necessary. A surprise really, as Potter has been content to eat reasonable portions, but beyond frustrating.

He tries to focus on his breathing and the fact that the house isn't trashed as he storms upstairs. It's the magic, he tells himself as he pounds on Potter's door. "Get out here!"

Potter doesn't come from the bedroom. A creak alerts Severus to the loo door and he snaps toward it, ready to pounce. He grabs Potter by the shirt and shoves him against the wall with more force than necessary. But the boy doesn't fight. Potter's position is one of submission—shoulders shrugged, eyes downcast.

"Well?" He punches his left fist into the wall.

Potter doesn't flinch. "I, I made a friend and, and we got, well drunk. I, I'll pay for it."

"It? The food or the alcohol?"

"Both."

Severus releases his grip slightly. Would it be so bad to kick the shit out of Potter? Would he feel guilty afterward? Or just relieved? He drops the boy, hoping he'll run and get himself out of the way before Severus works himself up again. Potter doesn't move; He stays perfectly still, submissive.

"It's okay, sir," Potter whispers. He looks up from under his fringe. "I'm not a baby, I can take a hit."

It's all the permission he needs. He drives his fist into Potter's stomach a few times before backhanding him and that's it. The urge is gone. There's no need to cause Potter any actual pain—all he wanted was a release.

Potter bites his lip and looks back up. "I am sorry."

"Clean up." Severus diverts his eyes so he can think. That wasn't so bad. He maintained control and only gave the boy a small licking. Not ideal, of course.

Potter's hand pats his shoulder and he flinches. "I won't tell. You're still a better dad than what I was going to get. Oh," he drops to a whisper, "and I had a boy sleep over. But nothing, you know…."

He darts off before Severus can think of anything to say.


	12. Chapter 12

Harry gently touches his fat lip when he's sure Snape's not looking. He's never felt someone else's magic intimately. Except Voldemort, that is. That night in the graveyard, he felt it, Voldemort's magic, the violence and instability of it. And now it's rolling off Snape in waves. Maybe he should be afraid, but he can't bring himself to believe it's actually a bad thing. Staying close to Voldemort is how Snape gets information. Snape would never hurt him. But even so, why can he feel it as readily as if Voldemort was standing there in the flesh? He returns to gutting flobberworms.

Snape bustles about the kitchen, brewing, with more energy than usual, like a child hyped up on sugar. "Perhaps…?" He shakes his head, no.

"Perhaps what?" Harry asks quietly. Snape doesn't respond verbally, but a shooting pain fills his scar and he struggles not to double over.

"Fuck," Snape breathes the word out slowly and hunches his shoulders up. He's probably not doing it intentionally then.

"Do, do you feel that?"

"What!" Snape massages his neck as he glares down at Harry.

"Him."

Snape freezes, only blinking, for a long moment. He silently moves closer, hand outstretched, until his palm is resting on Harry's forehead. A static charge builds and then everything goes dark. Completely and utterly dark.

The water surrounding his feet is undetectable until he moves. Then all he can feel is the freezing water creeping up inch by inch, threatening to envelope him. He wants to fight it—but how do you fight water when you can't see it? "D, Dad?"

"Dad?" A voice higher than Snape's but lower than Harry's echoes. "Dad? Dad? Pathetic."

A finger curls around his chin and tilts it upward. "Severus has always been my favorite, you know." It has to be the Dark Lord, Harry reasons, though the voice is obscure. "But he isn't easy to control. His pain prevents manipulation. It drives him to be more than he is." The finger moves up his cheek until it touches his scar. "You are the same."

The cold, moist air becomes harder to breathe, almost suffocating. He shakes as Voldemort's hands run up and down his body, touching, feeling. "I showed your father something incredible, when he was not much older than you. I can show you." He cups Harry's bum, gives it a small squeeze. "Such a small price to pay for power."

He could fight, but nobody's coming. There is no escape. Snape's magical presence is gone. As is the ground from under his feet. His own magic is gone, as far as he can tell. "Are you going to hurt him?"

Voldemort squeezes him in the same spot, harder. "Only if you make me."

"No!" Harry squeezes his eyes shut, hoping it will all go away. For a moment it does. There is silence, and then Snape's voice whispering. "Dad?"

 _"_ _Now as I watch the progress of the plague, the friends surrounding me fall sick, grow thin, and drop away. Bared, is my shape less vague—Sharply exposed and with a sculpted skin?"_

Harry ignores the hands, still touching and pinching, and focuses on Snape's voice. That voice will save him; That voice will bring him home. Home, he would do anything for home, give up anything.

 _"_ _I do not like the statue's chill contour, not nowadays. The warmth investing me led outward through mind, limb, feeling, and more in an involved increasing family. Contact of friend led to another friend, supple entwinement through the living mass which for all that I knew might have no end, image of an unlimited embrace."_

"Let me go," he says as forcefully as he can.

The hand withdraws as if it's been burned and Harry opens his eyes hoping to see his bedroom ceiling. Voldemort, but not the one he knows, stands there smirking, his short black hair flat and greased. He's nearly normal, Harry thinks.

 _"_ _I did not just feel ease, though comfortable: aggressive as in some ideal of sport, with ceaseless movement thrilling through the whole, their push kept me as firm as their support."_

"It is curious that he reads to you," Voldemort says softly. "Very curious. Do you know what he's helped me do to boys your age?"

Swallowing does nothing to dislodge the lump in his throat. Snape is good to him, that's all that matters. So what if he hurts others? The Gryffindor in him can barely stomach that thought, but the majority of him is willing to believe it. Situational ethics, isn't that what it's called?

 _"_ _But death—Their deaths have left me less defined: it was their pulsing presence made me clear. I borrowed from it, I was unconfined, who tonight balance unsupported here, eyes glaring from raw marble, in a pose languorously part-buried in the block, shins perfect and no calves, as if I froze between potential and a finished work."_

"Curious." Voldemort fades in an instant, like a television image disappearing with a power outage.

 _"—_ _Abandoned incomplete, shape of a shape, in which exact detail shows the more strange, trapped in unwholiness, I find no escape back to the play of constant give and change."_

A single blink leaves him staring at the ceiling and he's suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the gentle fingers playing with his hair. "Dad?"

The fingers leave the same way Voldemort's hands did—like they've done something wrong. "I am here."

"He thinks it's weird that you read to me," he says as he sits slowly. "You aren't safe."

"I know." Snape readjusts himself on the chair as he pushes against Harry's shoulder, directing him back to lying. "Will another poem put you to sleep?"

Harry drifts off slowly, jerking himself back awake every time he thinks Snape's stopped talking until he can no longer manage it.

 _A/N:_

-The Missing by Thom Gunn

-sorry it's short, might stay Harry another chapter instead of switching.


	13. Chapter 13

He watches the boy carefully after that, unreasonably concerned over leaving him alone for any period of time. The Dark Lord is there, inside Potter, right beneath the surface. How could he have missed it before? Albus never provides an answer as to why Potter has to be the chosen one and the Order does not question. Clearly none of them know where to look. Severus can reason what it is—a horcrux—but there would not have been time for the ceremony on that fateful Halloween night. The only logical explanation is that the Dark Lord is unaware of his creation, which does not bode well for the boy's safety.

Potter pushes his porridge around the bowl, quieter and smaller than ever, traumatized by something that occurred totally in his own mind. Severus can think of worse fates. But he hasn't bothered to say as much. The boy doesn't know that sort of pain and Severus has no desire to introduce him to it. Particularly considering that Potter will have to return to normal in no more than a week.

"Heilyn?" The boy doesn't look up. "Heilyn!" he barks louder than necessary.

"Yeah?" Potter looks up from under his fringe, attempting to hide that his eyes are still swollen from tears.

You should talk, Severus wants to say. It won't get better until you do. Whatever he did to you, I will understand. It's what he needed to hear at that age—that somebody would listen to him, believe him about Tobias, and not blame him or be disgusted. He can only imagine what the Dark Lord might have tried. Physical body or no, violation destroys the part of the soul capable of trust. He ought to know.

"I am going to read to you," he says as he stands, his mind racing to remember where he's left his bible. It's shoved away somewhere, where Eachann won't find it. His KJV would be easier to find, as Eachann approves of _that_ edition, but it's his NIV he wants. The language is more appealing, kinder in his mind. He finds it the first place he tries.

"My apologies for the length, but I think you ought to hear it all." He sits in the seat next to Potter. "First Samuel 17: David and Goliath. Keep in mind that David was anointed by God to be king." He clears his throat to make sure Potter is listening.

"Now the Philistines gathered their forces for war and assembled at Sokoh in Judah. They pitched camp at Ephes Dammim, between Sokoh and Azekah. Saul and the Israelites assembled and camped in the Valley of Elah and drew up their battle line to meet the Philistines. The Philistines occupied one hill and the Israelites another, with the valley between them. A champion named Goliath, who was from Gath, came out of the Philistine camp. His height was six cubits and a span [three meters]. He had a bronze helmet on his head and wore a coat of scale armor of bronze weighing five thousand shekels; on his legs he wore bronze greaves, and a bronze javelin was slung on his back his spear shaft was like a weaver's rod, and its iron point weighed six hundred shekels. His shield bearer went ahead of him.

"Goliath stood and shouted to the ranks of Israel, 'Why do you come out and line up for battle? Am I not a Philistine, and are you not the servants of Saul? Choose a man and have him come down to me. If he is able to fight and kill me, we will become your subjects; but if I overcome him and kill him, you will become our subjects and serve us. Then the Philistine said, 'This day I defy the armies of Israel! Give me a man and let us fight each other.' On hearing the Philistine's words, Saul and all the Israelites were dismayed and terrified. Now David was the son of an Ephrathite named Jesse, who was from Bethlehem in Judah. Jesse had eight sons, and in Saul's time he was very old. Jesse's three oldest sons had followed Saul to the war: the firstborn was Eliab; the second, Abinadab; and the third, Shammah. David was the youngest. The three oldest followed Saul, but David went back and forth from Saul to tend his father's sheep at Bethlehem. For forty days the Philistine came forward every morning and evening and took his stand.

"Now Jesse said to his son David, 'Take this ephah of roasted grain and these ten loaves of bread for your brothers and hurry to their camp. Take along these ten cheeses to the commander of their unit. See how your brothers are and bring back some assurance from them. They are with Saul and all the men of Israel in the Valley of Elah, fighting against the Philistines.' Early in the morning, David left the flock in the care of a shepherd, loaded up and set out, as Jesse had directed. He reached the camp as the army was going out to its battle positions, shouting the war cry. Israel and the Philistines were drawing up their lines facing each other. David left his things with the keeper of supplies, ran to the battle lines and asked his brothers how they were. As he was talking with them, Goliath, the Philistine champion from Gath, stepped out from his lines and shouted his usual defiance, and David hear it. Whenever the Israelites saw the man, they all fled from him in great fear."

He pauses long enough to look up, believing the boy will be disengaged. But he's not. Potter smiles for him to continue and leans closer.

"Now the Israelites had been saying, 'Do you see how this man keeps coming out? He comes out to defy Israel. The king will give great wealth to the man who kills him. He will also give him his daughter in marriage and will exempt his family from taxes in Israel.' David asked the men standing near him, 'What will be done for the man who kills this Philistine and removes this disgrace from Israel? Who is this uncircumcised Philistine that he should defy the armies of the living God?' They repeated to him what they had been saying and told him, 'This is what will be done for the man who kills him.' When Eliab, David's oldest brother, heard him speaking with the men, he burned with anger at him and asked, 'Why have you come down here? And with whom did you leave those few sheep in the wilderness? I know how conceited you are and how wicked your heart is; you came down only to watch the battle.'

"'Now what have I done?' said David. 'Can't I even speak?' he then turned away to someone else and brought up the same matter, and the men answered him as before. What David said was overheard and reported to Saul, and Saul sent for him. David said to Saul, 'Let no one lose heart on account of this Philistine; your servant will go and fight him.' Saul replied, 'You are not able to go out against this Philistine and fight him; you are only a young man, and he has been a warrior from his youth.'

"But David said to Saul, 'Your servant has been keeping his father's sheep. When a lion or a bear came and carried off a sheep from the flock, I went after it, struck it and rescued the sheep from its mouth. When it turned on me, I seized it by its hair, struck it and killed it. Your servant has killed both the lion and the bear; this uncircumcised Philistine will be like one of them, because he has defied the armies of the living God. The Lord who rescued me from the paw of the lion and the paw of the bear will rescue me from the hand of this Philistine.' Saul said to David, 'Go, and the Lord be with you.' Then Saul dressed David in his own tunic. He put a coat of armor on him and a bronze helmet on his head. David fastened on his sword over the tunic and tried walking around, because he was not used to them.

"'I cannot go in these,' he said to Saul, 'because I am not used to them.' So he took them off. Then he took his staff in his hand, chose five smooth stones from the stream, put them in the pouch of his shepherd's bag and, with his sling in his hand, approached the Philistine. Meanwhile, the Philistine, with his shield bearer in front of him, kept coming closer to David. He looked David over and saw that he was little more than a boy, glowing with health and handsome, and he despised him. He said to David, 'Am I a dog, that you come at me with sticks?' And the Philistine cursed David by his gods. 'Come here,' he said, 'and I'll give your flesh to the birds and the wild animals!'

"David said to the Philistine, 'You come against me with sword and spear and javelin, but I come against you in the name of the Lord Almighty, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have defied. This day the Lord will deliver you into my hands, and I'll strike you down and cut off your head. This very day I will give the carcasses of the Philistine army to the birds and the wild animals, and the whole world will know that there is a God in Israel. All those gathered here will know that it is not by sword or spear that the Lord saves; for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give all of you into our hands.'

"As the Philistines moved closer to attack him, David ran quickly toward the battle line to meet him. Reaching into his bag and taking out a stone, he slung it and struck the Philistine on the forehead. The stone sank into his forehead, and he fell facedown on the ground. So David triumphed over the Philistine with a sling and a stone; without a sword in his hand he struck down the Philistine and killed him. David ran and stood over him. He took hold of the Philistine's sword and drew it from the sheath. After he killed him, he cut off his head with the sword."

The smallest of gasps draws his attention to Potter for a moment. Is it really so easy to cheer the boy up?

"When the Philistines saw that their hero was dead, they turned and ran. Then the men of Israel and Judah surged forward with a shout and pursued the Philistines to the entrance of Gath and to the gates of Ekron. Their dead were strewn along the Shaaraim road to Gath and Ekron. When the Israelites returned from chasing the Philistines, they plundered their camp.

"David took the Philistine's head and brought it to Jerusalem; he put the Philistine's weapons in his own tent. As Saul watched David going out to meet the Philistine, he said to Abner, commander of the army. 'Abner, whose son is that young man?' Abner replied, 'As surely as you live, Your Majesty, I don't know.' The king said, 'Find out whose son this young man is.' As soon as David returned from killing the Philistine, Abner took him and brought him before Saul, with David still holding the Philistine's head. 'Whose son are you, young man?' Saul asked him.

"David said, 'I am the son of your servant Jesse of Bethlehem."

As he moves to close the bible, Potter's hand clenches around it. He looks almost peaceful, like there's nothing important on his mind. "Keep going?"

Severus almost smiles at the innocence of it. Underneath it all, no matter what anybody says, Potter is a boy, a child in desperate need of a parent. "That's the end of the story. Albus requested I call around headquarters for a meeting." He hands over the bible gently. "You can finish First Samuel while I am gone. Discover how David the boy hero grows up."

He watches Potter tuck into the next story and squashes the desire to run a hand through the boy's hair. Any affection he has cannot progress further. "Oidhche mhath," he calls over his shoulder.

The stench of headquarters nearly causes him to vomit. With so many occupants one might expect it to be cleaner. Especially given that there are women. Might one excuse his home, which he shares with a teenaged boy, having a stench. Probably. But he wouldn't allow it. He's not even Potter's father and he's keeping a cleaner home than the Weasleys do for their bloody children. He sees Black charging toward him with only enough time to throw an arm up for protection.

"You bastard!" Black yells, putting on his best impression of a rabid dog. "I could murder you!" His fist connects soundly with Severus' stomach.

"Enough!" Albus shouts, clearly tired.

None of them look at him as he sits. None of them have the balls. Black believes he's done nothing wrong; Lupin couldn't grow a spine with a transplant of embryonic cells; Albus doesn't care.

"Where's Harry?" Albus taps his finger on the table.

"Safe," Severus replies with a shrug. "I was called and did not have time to return him here. He ate my food and spent an evening with my father." Albus is out of his seat before Severus has thought over what he said. "My biological father, Eachann," he corrects. "Not Tobias."

Moody stomps his peg, a telltale sign he's about to speak and expects to be heard. "Ain't ever mentioned a father, Snape. 'Spect me to trust the lad's safe?"

"It is curious," Albus cuts him off. "If you have a family…."

Severus withholds a groan and digs his nails into his palm. When did he decide the boy was worth the trouble? "It is complicated and frankly I do not owe you my life's story. The boy is safe. Eachann is a Muggle—the worst he could do is take your precious savior to church."

Silence falls and yet again he only realizes what he's said too late. Church. Religion. God. Things not compatible with wizarding society. Beliefs that are archaic explanations for the world when compared to magic.

"I see," Albus whispers. If anything might make the man's long-buried prejudices against Muggles reappear, Severus thinks this is it. "I will give you the choice, then. Return Harry here, or take Remus with you."

-:

He apparates them to the yard where nobody can see them and shoves Lupin as they're coming out of it. The wolf rears its head for a moment before Lupin's typically pathetic look takes over. "Listen wolf," Severus growls. "There will be no magic. You will not interfere in how I manage the boy or in how I run my home. If anyone asks you will claim that we attended university together. Should you," he pulls the man up by the front of his shirt, "disregard any of those rules, I will take you apart piece by piece." He pulls his lips back to bear his teeth as he thinks about the last boy he dismembered.

Lupin coughs like he's suffocating, but Severus suspects it is an act. "That's quite unnecessary."

He hums as he tosses Lupin to the ground. "You sleep on the couch."

The house is thankfully silent and he hopes that just this once Potter went to sleep early. He lets a floorboard creak under his foot as Lupin crosses the hearth to give the boy warning. It would have been easier just to let Potter suffer under Black's care.

"Dad!"

He freezes, shoulders hunched up, aware of the choking sound emanating from Lupin. "What?"

"David and Jonathan! But they ran David out."

"A Mhuire Mhàthair." He points to the sofa for Lupin and nearly laughs when the man sits without comment. "Heilyn, come here."

"Heilyn?" Lupin whispers. He repeats it, fumbling to form the correct sounds.

Potter enters, bible in hand, bounce in his step, as if his earlier depression never occurred. "What's that mean?" he asks, gaze on Severus.

Severus simply stares at him for so long even he is uncomfortable. "In order: Jonathan and David were likely lovers; Saul was petty; Mother Mary; Lupin is staying through the end of the holiday."

"Lupin!" Potter whips his head around so fast something pops. He glowers down at the wolf the same way Severus would. "Why are you here?"

Lupin looks between the two of them like he's seen a ghost. "To check that you were safe, naturally."

"I'm fine, go home."

Severus clears his throat, unsure which one of them he's warning. "You have heard that it was said, 'Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous. If you love those who love you, what reward will you get? Are not even the tax collectors doing that? And if you greet only your own people, what are you doing more than others? Don not even pagans do that? Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect. Mark 5:43."

Potter wiggles one of his legs as he feigns remorse. "I'll behave. Sorry, Professor Lupin."

The silence is only broken by Potter whistling as he flees to his room to read in peace.

 _A/N: I moved to a new state and haven't made friends yet, so lucky you all! Thanks for comments! Love reading them. How's everybody feel about some Lupin narration? There may be some future Snupin of the abusive sort—haven't decided yet._


	14. Chapter 14

Remus wakes with every creak of the house, half-paranoid that Harry could get hurt. Harry. Or perhaps he ought to call him Heilyn now. James and Lily's little boy. What could Severus possibly have done to break their sweet little boy? Some of it is probably the Diggory boy's death, Voldemort's resurrection. And he hasn't spent enough time with Sirius and his friends at headquarters.

He wakes for the last time at half five, when Severus and Harry stomp down the stairs, and runs to meet them—there's no reason for Harry to be up so early. He watches from the doorway as they make breakfast and sit down to eat—porridge and tea, an exceptionally boring combination.

"Are you going to sit?" Severus grumbles as he cocks his head in Remus' direction.

He sits cautiously, across from Severus and next to Harry. They eat like boys, clamored around the table racing to see who finishes first so that they can run off and play.

"What are you doing today?" Severus looks over the top of his mug.

"Going out with Finn," Harry shouts. A blush fills his cheeks as he realizes how loud he is but disappears just as fast. "Is that okay?"

Severus nods. "Go, have fun. Be back before dark."

Be back before dark, Remus repeats the words mentally. Doesn't he realize how absurd it is to give Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, permission to run off unaccompanied for the day! It could be a breakfast out of a Muggle home, where the magical world doesn't exist, for all Severus seems to care.

"If you are certain this Finn is a safe person," Remus ads on slowly, attempting not to annoy Severus too much, "then perhaps he can come here."

"They're boys," Severus retorts immediately.

"Yeah!" Harry joins in. "We need to play."

Is that how Severus got him? By deluding him into believing that he could have a normal life? Of course Harry wants that—to run around free and wild—but as a boy he can't possibly understand prioritizing safety over fun. "I could accompany you."

"Enough!" Severus slams his fist on the table, causing it to shake. "This is my home and he is my responsibility. We are safe. If you cannot accept that I will find somewhere small to stuff your unconscious body." He stands, mug in hand, and points one of his long, greasy fingers at Harry. "Dishes. And find something to read."

He wants to vomit as he watches Harry scarf down the rest of his porridge. The boy's a bloody animal, eating like he's starved. Severus must have been starving him the full duration of his stay for it to be so bad. He tries to give Severus the benefit of the doubt, believe that he's simply unaware of how much a growing boy ought to eat—given that he eats like he's been starved his whole 36 years of life, it is possible. If only Harry would complain. But he doesn't complain as he washes the morning dishes and sounds almost giddy as he runs upstairs.

With each step he listens for Severus. Though it would be unwise to invade the man's space, determining whether or not Harry has a safe and appropriate space is necessary. It's obvious that Harry's room is a converted office, cluttered with books and the like, and only a desk and trunk besides the bed. A glance into Severus' room confirms the poverty they're living in. A Hogwarts professor should have more than enough, yearly salary alone, to sustain a nice home. But Harry still isn't unhappy.

"Look Remus," he says as he points at the books. "Isn't it great?" He scurries, with one in his hand, over to the trunk and pulls it open. "And I've got clothes."

"You didn't have clothes?" Remus asks with a short laugh.

Harry stops smiling. "Those were Dudley's."

"And these are yours?"

"Yeah, Pro…Professor Snape gave me them."

Professor Snape. "But you typically call Severus 'dad' right?" Harry nods slowly, clearly hesitant to trust him. "I'm not angry."

"Duh."

Harry's shoulder hits his with a thwack as he passes. Has he simply never seen this belligerent, possibly destructive side of Harry before? Severus has been warning them about it for years, but if anyone was going to see something in Harry it wouldn't be Severus.

He tiptoes into the room and opens the trunk slowly. There's a picture of Severus in his mastery robes. He's forgotten how young he must have been then. 17? Maybe 18? He's still the youngest ever, isn't he? Inside there's piles of clothes, nice clothes, the ones Harry's been wearing. It doesn't seem possible that all of Harry things are his cousin's. Maybe he and Sirius should have been more proactive. He picks up little trinkets and books, the story of Severus' life.

With age, with all his friends dead or imprisoned, he grew up, realized in a rather harsh instant that they'd been bullies. James and Sirius always thought that Severus was weak, a fag, a sissy. He never argued. Severus was…different. But none of them ever realized that he lived like this. In a cluttered, cold home with everything falling apart. And this certainly isn't the worst of it. He can only imagine how Severus was raised. Which begs the question. Why would Harry possibly want to live like this?


	15. Chapter 15

Harry holds _The Inferno_ in one hand and reads slowly as he paces in front of the door. He read a few pages of it earlier, before he knew God stuff. But now that he knows about the sins and about David, it calls to him. _We all so willingly record our gains, until the hour that leads us into loss._ He thinks of how true that is in his life. The gains have come so few and far in-between, he feels he's had to focus on them. Learning to read before Dudley; running faster than Dudley; being skinnier than Dudley; going to Hogwarts; being the youngest seeker in a century; defeating Voldemort three times. But in-between those he's forgotten that being quiet in class and abrasive when confronted with authority, as he's always done to make the Durselys' story that he's troubled believable, didn't make him allies as much as it did enemies. His fellow Gryffindors, believing much like Umbridge that he's a liar, were quick to turn their backs. Professor McGonagall just wanted him to keep his head down, stay out of the way for once.

And maybe he should—remember to be modest and try being quiet. Snape and the adults can do the hard work. Maybe. He has to grow. _As little flowers bend low on freezing nights, closed tight, but then, as sunlight whitens them, grow upright on their stems and fully open, now so did I._ "Be forthright, brave, and resolute." That sounds good.

"Harry?" Remus ducks his head as he approaches. "I really would prefer it if you didn't go out."

"I really would prefer it if you fucked off." A few deep breaths do nothing to quell his irritation. "I know it's my fault mom and dad died, and Cedric, and it's my fault I didn't beat him in the graveyard that night, but it's not fair. I just want to be a boy." He gulps slowly, mildly appalled that he's said those things. But he squares his shoulders and stares down Remus anyways, just like Snape would.

The color drains from Remus' face. "None of that was your fault."

"Just cuz something's not your fault doesn't mean you don't want someone to tell you you're forgiven." He doesn't gulp this time, confident in what he's saying. "God always forgives."

"Okay," Remus ducks his head again and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Be safe, won't you?" He doesn't wait for Harry's reply and Harry doesn't wait for him to leave.

Safe? He never tries to be unsafe! Unsafe just happens. Who's Remus to try and understand? If Remus wanted to fill a role in his life, he's had about as much chance as everyone else.

The knock finally comes at the door and he leaves with a curt, "Bye," thrown lazily over his shoulder. "Hey Fin," he awkwardly pats the other boy's shoulder, unsure if they should hug or…or…shake hands?

"Hey," Fin pats lower, down on Harry's hip, as they take an experimental few steps. "Stashed some whiskey an' fags down the way. Up for't?"

With the heat in his cheeks he struggles to say yes. They're going to get drunk in a barn and do what? It's an exciting proposition.

"So," Fin stretches out the word until the sound is lost, "ye got a…a person back home?"

"A boyfriend?" he tries out the word. "No."

"Me neither," Fin responds too quick. "Not that I'd mind."

"Yeah." His chest felt tighter with every step he took. Why hadn't he asked Snape for advice on flirting? Should they hold hands?

The barn is rundown, but thankfully quiet. He lets Fin lead, unsure of what he's doing, where he should sit, what he should say. What if he sits first and Fin sits away from him? Or Fin sits first and Harry sits too close? But Fin pulls him down, closer than he planned, and hands over the whiskey with force.

"Snatched it," Fin laughs. "Pa won't miss a wee bottle like tha."

A wee bottle? To Harry it looks normal. He takes a long sip, exploring the flavor, trying to taste it fully. It's different from every whiskey he's ever had—must be peat. That's what the label says, after all.

"Can I taste?" Fin asks softly.

"Yeah." Harry starts to extend the bottle but stops when soft lips cover his own. Fin wants to taste. He parts his lips, anticipating the tongue before it arrives. But it doesn't make him sick up, the way an unfamiliar tongue sometimes does. He greets it with his own. This kiss is not wet, the way his kiss with Cho was, rather…perfect. Can a kiss be perfect?

Fin begins to pull away and Harry moves with him, maintaining the kiss until Fin's hand pushes against his chest. They don't speak as they have a bit more to drink and slowly move back into an embrace. His blood pumps hot as they kiss and touch, hands running on the outside of clothing not yet daring to venture underneath. It's cold, freezing, only 5 or 6 degrees Celsius, but he could stay outside all day if it meant this.

Fin pushes him back again and moves them both up to standing. "Freezing me ass to the ground." He tucks a few strands of Harry's hair behind his ear and chews on his bottom lip. "Don't suppose we could go to yours."

"Yes."

They play video games most of the day, as casually as possible, sneaking kisses and touches in the moments when they are sure they're alone. As much as Harry always wanted to play these games—because Dudley never invited him—he could go the rest of his life without doing so. They're not even exciting, just something to pretend with. He finally lets Fin's hand reach its destination after hours of gently pushing it aside whenever Remus came in to check on them. The man is bloody paranoid.

Fin's fingers brush over his bulge, leaving a tingling need for more in their wake. They should do it—he wants to do it! Before going back to Hogwarts. He'll make Fin his and this place really will be home forever. He brushes his fingers over Fin's chin and draws him nearer before moving down his chest and finding his own purchase. The bulge in his hand twitches and he's ready to drag Fin upstairs right that moment.

"Heilyn!" Remus calls as he enters.

Harry and Fin retract their hands in identical motions and let out a loud groan about losing at the game.

"Severus says dinner."

-:

He tugs and pulls at Fin's peen slowly, trying not to get him too hard too fast. "Do you think they're asleep yet?" He digs his head further into Fin's shoulder. "I really want to."

"Yeah," Fin whispers as he rubs the top of Harry's in a circular fashion. "How, how d'ya wanna?"

"How do you?"

"Could put 'em in you."

Harry's ready to say yes immediately, but gives it a minute so it doesn't seem too…what's the word? Desperate. "I think I'd like that."

"Could try a finger first make sure it don't hurt." Fin rests his head against Harry's. "An' you could put it in me after. Or first. I've tried a finger before." He pushes his hand against Harry's chest as he moves so he is hovering over Harry's lap.

A soft gasp escapes Harry's lips as Fin moves further down, a little bit at a time. "Does that hurt?"

"Nah, just gotta relax."

He moves and it's okay, but it's not as great as everyone always told Harry it would be. "Can we switch?"

Fin blushes bright red. "You angry? It's not awful."

Harry grips Fin's hips as he sits up, bringing their bodies closer together. "Fin I want you in me."

They move clumsily, trying not to make too much noise. With the low lighting, just a sliver comes in from under the door, Harry can barely make out the features of the other boy's face as he pushes a finger in. It's barely enough to notice, but he makes little noises anyways, amazed that somebody is touching him this way; amazed that somebody wants to touch him this way. They kiss while Fin puts in another finger—this one Harry feels. It still doesn't hurt, but it's uncomfortable for the first minute. After that first minute though, the sensation of fullness makes him unusually hard.

"In, in," he hisses as he pats Fin's shoulder.

And Fin does. In one clumsy movement Fin is in and he has to bite his fist to keep from yelping. Fin is not that smart. "Oh!" He grunts and stretches his body along Harry's so their torsos touch. "Oh."

"There!" Harry grips the other boy's shoulders and arches his back as something in him twinges. "There!"

After a few more thrusts Harry shoots his load on Fin's stomach and Fin stops moving. "I uh…"

"Me too."

They fall asleep, Harry's head on Fin's chest, legs entwined.


	16. Chapter 16

Remus cups his hands over his ears and hums loudly while he watches the little figure Severus is controlling on the tv jump and run. _It helps me not punch holes in the walls,_ Severus had said when he booted the system. _Bought it when I tried to quit drinking._ He doesn't imagine it actually helps much. Every time Severus loses his hands shake and he swears at the screen, in whatever language he speaks. But Remus would rather listen to him swear and cuss for hours than hear a single moan from upstairs.

"They done yet?"

"Fuck if I know." Severus waits until he loses again. "Every now and then I think I hear something. I could murder that kid."

Remus chuckles and lessens his hold on his ears. "Do celibacy spells work on minors?"

"I was thinking a chastity belt."

Harry's snores finally meet their ears and Severus sets down the controller. "Tell me Lupin, is this sort of behavior normal in the home? Both of my fathers would beat the cac out of me for even thinking about bringing someone home."

"Oh yes, I suppose you were a rather awkward boy." Remus isn't sure what all he ought to say. For years they'd told him nobody would ever want to have sex with him—what if they were right? What if nobody ever had sex with him? "It's different for girls, but my father patted me on the back, was proud I'd become a man."

He watches Severs absent-mindedly play with his hair. "The Blacks never seemed to take issue, but Regulus wasn't the heir. Pure-blood society has certainly maintained standards regarding sexual purity."

Not a virgin then. "Maybe if you'd taken a girl…."

Severus' eyes glare daggers, but for once Remus identifies it as pain instead of anger. "Do not assume, wolf."

"Yes, of course Severus. My apologies."

-:

Feeling it would be a bit too voyeuristic to pop his head into Harry's room, Remus opts for Severus' instead. He's been up the entire night, quietly going through the things downstairs. It's too Muggle, too mundane, to be the home of Severus Snape, but this man is not Snape. This man cannot help but display his insecurities—he only puts up half the fight he normally does. All in all Severus is far more broken than he realized. And so is Harry. They make quite the pair.

A small part of him wants to smile. Harry is in trouble for doing something normal. No Dark Lords involved, just teenage shenanigans. He's almost certain Severus won't beat Harry, but a sinking feeling tells him that both boy and man would find such a thing to be normal.

Severus sleeps on his side, curled up into a ball, no larger than a pubescent boy. Though if indications are anything to go by, it's a tactic to avoid taking damage in an unexpected attack. Behaviors like that are learned young. Gasping breaths tell him that Severus has woken, but he curls in on himself further, rather than getting up. This is who they bullied.

"Are you going to stand there all night?" Severus hisses.

"Oh, I…I," Remus stammers, trying to come up with any reason to be there.

"Enjoying the view?"

He wants to respond that he could never enjoy this, but once upon a time he would have. "Do you need water?"

"I need for death to come swiftly."

He nods, uncomfortable in engaging in a conversation about suicidal tendencies. "I know with all the teasing it doesn't seem like we value you…."

Severus moves to standing without first uncurling his body and slinks toward him like a wild cat hunting prey. "How marvelous to have an indigent twat validate my self worth."

And with the right button pushed, Severus is back to his usual self. Never before has Remus felt intimidated by the man before him, but right this moment he knows he is in a disadvantaged position. "Good night then."

The door almost hits him as he leaves.

-:

Before Remus even realizes the boys are awake Fin is running out the door like Severus has threatened to kill him. Perhaps he has. "Èist do bheul," Severus snaps just as Remus joins them in the kitchen. "Suidh," he points to the chair.

Harry sits, his chin tucked into his chest, and mouths the words. _Èist do bheul._ "Can I talk?"

"No. You may sit and listen." Remus leans against the doorframe while Severus leans on the table, hovering over Harry. "This is my home, little boy. My home. I have worked since age 6 to build myself into a man that could afford a home with furniture, running water, and heat. Things I did not have as a child. The one thing I did have as a child was unwavering respect for and fear of my father and his home."

Harry stares blankly at the table. He won't be sorry, Remus knows. No boy is ever sorry when he has sex the first time, consequences be damned. Perhaps he can appeal to Harry some other way—tell him he's proud but that sex needs to be safe and performed in places where you won't be caught out. Lily wouldn't want him doing it in the house, after all.

Severus lowers himself until he is at Harry's eye level. "Ephesians 6. Children, obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honor your father and mother—which is the first commandment with a promise—so that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth. Fathers, do not exasperate your children; instead, bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.

"Hebrews 12:8. For what children are not disciplined by their father? If you are not disciplined—and everyone undergoes discipline—then you are not legitimate, not a true son. No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but painful. Later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it."

Severus pauses to take a long breath. "Therefore, strengthen your feeble arms and weak knees. Proverbs 4:26. Give careful thought to the paths for your feet and be steadfast in all your ways. Do not turn to the right or the left; keep your foot from evil."

They share a long moment of silence during which Remus cannot take his eyes off Severus. There's something…evocative about how he handles the situation. He's the sort of man that can head a family. That shouldn't put a warm feeling in Remus' stomach.

In a flash of movement, Severus slams a book down in front of Harry and barks, "Proverbs 23, saying 13. Ecclesiastes 3. I want to hear you read them."

Harry's hands shake as he snatches the book. He's afraid. "Pro…Proverbs 23, saying 13. Do not withhold discipline from a child." His voice becomes so quiet Remus is convinced he can only hear because of his heightened senses. "If you punish them with the rod, they will not die. Punish them with the rod and save them from death. Are you going to beat me then? You don't need to be cute about it."

Severus growls, either to shut Harry up or prevent Remus from talking—he's not sure. "Read the next one. Ecclesiastes 3."

Harry turns the pages slowly, clearly buying time in case Severus is going to come through on his threat. "Ecclesiastes 3. There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent, oh, and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace."

"That's enough."

Remus cannot help but blush. It might just be the most profound thing he's ever heard. From Severus, no less.

"There is a time," Severus continues, "to be a boy and a time to be a man. It is your time to be a boy and boys respect their fathers. If that is truly what you wish out of this arrangement you will mind me. I want this house clean so we can leave. I do not care how long it takes you or if it is painful. Prove that you can respect my hard work and authority or clean out your room so I can have my office back. Understood?"

"Yes sir," Harry responds so fast his voice cracks. In the second Remus refrains from speaking to chuckle, Harry runs off. Rightfully so.

He tries to swallow his blush as he approaches Severus, but suspects he's failed. "You're a good father." His mouth keeps running after his brain stops thinking. "I could kiss you."

Severus glares. "If I kill you they will never find your body."


	17. Chapter 17

Severus stares blankly, both overwhelmed and underwhelmed. This is his home. He has to leave, return to a place where he's undervalued, a place where nobody cares. This has always been his sanctuary, but now it's more. People had told him that you need a family to make a home and a family had always been out of the question. Until Potter. Heilyn, his Heilyn—what wouldn't he give for that boy to never stop looking at him with adoration? There's nothing here he wants to take. There's never anything he wants to take to Hogwarts. His life is relatively meaningless.

He packs anyways, just so he'll be doing something when the person walking up the stairs reaches their destination. Lupin. He's packing so that Lupin will think he's normal. He doesn't fold the shirts before shoving them into the duffle bag from the bottom drawer of the dresser. They're shit anyways. Half of what he owns is shit.

"You're being too harsh." Lupin doesn't wait at the threshold like a normal person. He steps in, scowling at the mess. "One minute you want him to be a boy, the next you're…."

"Are you my wife Lupin?" He snaps. Silly little Snivellus incapable of being normal, or a good role model.

Lupin recoils like he's been hit but does not flee. Severus would love to see the coward run off. Without the other Marauders, this man is nothing. Severus could take him, pummel him, destroy him—it would be easy and it would feel so, so good.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your humor, Severus."

"Are you my wife?" He draws closer to Lupin, cornering him against the doorframe. His blood is pumping hot. "Lay down." Lupin opens his mouth to ask why. "Lay down and spread your legs."

"Severus?"

"No?" He smirks and presses closer still. "If you don't want to put out for me then perhaps you can make dinner. Really, darling," he spits the word and draws his finger across the other man's chest. "If I'm going to be the bread-winner and do everything around here without some husbandly privilege, don't you think I ought to make the parenting decisions?"

Lupin looks like he might retch. But he doesn't move. He remains sandwiched between the door and Severus' body. "And how is it you would like to take me, Severus? Here? Against the wall? On the bed? Right above Heilyn's head after that marvelous lecture on respect?" He leans forward, daring Severus to move. "Because we're horny men and this is what we do?"

No. Severus isn't horny. He can't be horny with Lupin—can't want to be filled in the presence of a man who has caused him so much pain. He's just making a point. But Lupin, if his movements are anything to go by, is. Curious.

"Is that the home we should give him?" Lupin continues. "You come home after a long day of work and make decisions for Heilyn and I serve you dinner and then lay down and let you do whatever you want. Some family."

Severus lashes out, drives his fist into the wall next to Lupin's head. He wants to hit his face, his stomach, his crotch, every inch of him. He's not in the mood to be mocked, to have this ungrateful cretin in his home. He stops, as quickly as he'd started.

The warmth in his arm calms him instantly.

-:

He does not kneel; he doesn't even think to stop and kneel. He takes the Dark Lord's hand and pulls him along, not caring about the other Death Eaters there. He needs to be naked, needs to have this man inside him. The Dark Lord chuckles as Severus tears his shirt off.

"Eager." The Dark Lord kisses him as he helps remove clothing. "You need me?"

"Yes," Severus breathes out the word. "Fuck me."

Nothing else needs to be said. Already hard, Severus cups his master's balls and rubs them softly. The man's growing erection amuses him as they kiss, teeth and nails drawing blood. He runs his hands over firm muscles and tries to keep his mind silent. This. This is what he has to offer Heilyn. A home filled with violence. He could come home from work, do everything around the house, raise Heilyn himself, and have his brains fucked out every night. It's ideal for him even if it's not ideal for the boy.

He holds his legs up, spread like a v, and grunts when the Dark Lord enters him. It feels good, so good. "There!" he orders. "Stay there." And the Dark Lord does.

The other man bites and pinches and sometimes kisses him while thrusting so hard and fast Severus can't breathe. He moans anyways.

When they're finished, he lets his legs fall onto the bed, hoping his master will understand that he doesn't feel inclined to move quite yet. The Dark Lord embraces him in what he might dare to call a cuddle and for a moment he feels okay.

"I like it when you're needy," the Dark Lord says. "Severus?"

"I'm fine." For the first time in a while he thinks he actually means it.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: this chapter marks the beginning of part two of this story. hopefully people are still reading, not sure. drop me a comment maybe. sorry it's short. I'm...planning? debating where this is going to go? Both, I guess. Enjoy

"Have the dreams continued?" Albus asks as he pulls at his beard. "Or has he improved past the point of being affected?"

"The dreams have ended." Severus mulls over his next words. Nobody has ever paid his concerns over Potter's attitude mind before. "However he has had an emotional response to my instruction."

Albus nods slowly. "Remus indicated that the two of you had come to an understanding. I will have to ask that you refrain from making promises you cannot keep. He has a role to play in this war, same as you. Remus will continue supervising your lessons."

Bloody Lupin, wonderful. He wonders for a moment if he'll need to shoo Lupin off, clearly denote himself as unavailable. But most likely the man just wants to be near Potter. He might be useful for dueling lessons. "That will be fine. Did you have any other questions?"

Albus doesn't look at him as he leaves. He's disappointed, again: disappointed that Severus has finally opened up, or disappointed that the lessons have been successful. The old man's smart enough to know that Potter is harder to control with another source of proper authority in his life. Just for fun he ought to change the path of the boy's life drastically. It would be so easy. Encourage Potter to go into the clergy or to a Muggle university. Chances are Potter will be better for it.

He slams the doors open, but the 5th years are past the point of jumping at his antics. The small pink woman, however, lets out a small shriek. "Professor Snape," she scolds, "you are tardy. Tardiness is not to be permitted, by a professor no less. The height of disappointment."

"Potter, how tall are you?" he responds automatically.

The boy squirms. "Taller than your temper, I suppose."

Good. Umbridge will report their spat and whatever worries Albus has will be calmed. He leans his hands on his desk and bares his teeth. "Clearly my temper is taller than your wit." He bites the last word.

"Don't think it's the size that matters, sir."

The size that… the little brat. "Madame Umbridge, how may I assist you?"

She huffs up, the constipated look on her face a sure sign that she missed the humor. "I am here to assess your class size. The ministry is concerned that allowing students with historically subpar performance to continue is negatively impacting the education of our most promising individuals."

He sees it for what it is. Removing Potter from potions before his OWLs will prevent him from Ministry employment down the line. "I assure you Madame, I can handle the class size. Blatant stupidity is normal at their age."

She seats herself in the corner anyways.

Severus exhales slowly and starts the chalk on the board. Next thing the frustrating woman will be insisting he have the students brew directly from their textbooks. "Over the course of your holiday assignment, you should have familiarized yourselves with the opposing traits and interactions of class D herbs. Today you will brew the first in a series of potions that catalyzes for a contentious interaction." He pauses, stuck in his thoughts but knowing they do not want a further lecture. "If there are no questions, you may begin."

"By contentious do you mean antithetical?" Potter dares to ask. "The interaction will emphasize the negative qualities of the ingredients?"

"No." He raises his eyebrows and stares at the ceiling. The question is intelligent, but the difference was not addressed in the text. "Potter raises a point that is not well addressed in your text. It appears he's actually read for once in his life. The interaction will not create a negative potion, such as a poison. Instead it will put the contending ingredients in competition. Damiana is an aphrodisiac. Bittersweet can awaken repressed memories. The blowfish in this potion serves to extend the potion's effects and takes to whichever of the contenders it finds most appealing. Much like regular poisons containing blowfish, an antidote is needed to end the effects."

They stare at him like he's grown a second, more boring head, but at least Potter seems to be taking it in. Granger and Malfoy too, he thinks. "Your brewing may result in a lust potion or a memory entrapment potion. There is no way to tell without ingesting. I must therefore suggest that you do not annoy me today."

Umbridge scribbles down notes in her book, more perturbed than before, and Severus cannot help but wonder if Potter was actually interested in the answer or just showing the first signs of a developing sense of self-preservation.


	19. Chapter 19

Harry bounces on his feet outside the door to Snape's chambers. He isn't supposed to be there on the weekends—Dumbledore's orders—and he certainly shouldn't have his bible in his bag. But it's Sunday and he wants Snape to tell him more about being a man. That's the worst part about Hogwarts. He's only gotten to have a dad for a few weeks and he misses being parented all the time. How can everyone stand it? He places his hand against the door and pushes it open.

"Pro…Professor?"

"We're alone Heilyn," Snape calls from the kitchen. "What did you need?"

"I was thinking," Harry says as he pulls his bible out, his eyes on Snape as he enters, "if you haven't prayed already this morning…or if you have and want to again…."

Snape motions toward the sofa with his coffee. His hair is greasier than it was over break, like he's stopped washing it, and his fingers are more discolored. Though it makes sense. Five classes five days a week is an awful lot of fumes.

"I have a meeting in an hour, but I will get you started."

Harry frowns. "Why do you have a meeting on a Sunday?"

"Child, I work on average 18 hours a day. I meet with the other heads of house Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at 7am to review the points lost and detentions assigned to ensure there is no abuse. Our general staff meetings are on Thursdays same time. I teach 24 class periods per week. I hold office hours every evening. I prepare for classes. I grade papers and tests. I brew certain potions on-demand for the Hospital Wing because they are otherwise too expensive. I act in loco-parentis for my students." He takes a long sip of his coffee and Harry stares.

How is it possible to handle such a workload? No wonder he's always short-tempered and hides out in isolation during the hols. Add to that what Harry's asked of him, to serve as a parent, and the man must be totally exhausted. "I'll go."

Snape gives a single shake of his head, no. "Psalm 15, find it in your book."

Harry turns the pages carefully, worried that they might rip.

"In worship," Snape continues, "the Psalms are typically sung. You see the numbers designating the lines? Each is typically split into two. At the end of the first, you sing higher, and at the end of the second you sing lower. You'll figure it out."

Sing? Harry's eyes go wide as he tries to swallow his blush. He's never sung anything! The idea of Snape singing is weird too. Just the two of them, two guys, sitting around singing.

Snape raises his eyebrows and opens his mouth slowly to show that he's beginning. "Lord who may dwell in your sacred **tent**? Who may live on your holy **mountain**?" He pauses. "Potter?"

"You have a nice voice," Harry whispers. He'd like to have a voice like that when he's a man—deep and even. "Can we start again?"

"Lord who may dwell in your sacred **tent**?" Harry mouths those and then jumps in, his pubescent voice much higher. "Who may live on your holy **mountain**? The one whose walk is blameless who does what is **righteous** / who speaks the truth from their **heart**." He tries to drop his voice on the correct word, but it doesn't drop very far. "Whose tongue utters no **slander** / who does no wrong to a neighbor and casts no slur on **others**. Who despises a vile person but honors those who fear the **Lord** / who keeps an oath even when it hurts and does not change their **mind**. Who lends money to the poor without **interest** / who does not accept a bribe against the **innocent**. Whoever does these **things** / will never be **shaken**."

He likes the Psalm, even if he doesn't much like singing. Speak right, act right, do right. "Did I do okay?"

"Indeed." Snape continues drinking his coffee and taps a finger on the spine of the sofa. He stops suddenly and extends his hand. "Give it here."

Harry hands over his bible and chews on his bottom lip. Hopefully he's not going to get another lecture on honoring his father. He won't be making that mistake again. As the minutes stretch on, he slowly starts bouncing his leg. Will it be a lesson on his temper? Or on drinking, or sex? Better respecting his elders?

Snape clears his throat. "Again, you have heard that it was said to the people long ago, 'do not break your oath, but fulfill to the Lord the vows you have made.' But I tell you, do not swear an oath at all; either by heaven, for it is God's throne; or by the earth, for it is his footstool; or by Jerusalem, for it is the city of the Great King. And do not swear by your head, for you cannot make even one hair white or black. All you need to say is simply 'yes' or 'no'; anything beyond this comes from the evil one." He stops and squints. "Did you understand that?"

"Yeah!" Harry says, a bit too confidently. "I should do what I say I'm going to."

"It means," Snape says slowly, "that you are responsible onto yourself, not whatever you might swear on. Have you done the assignment for my class yet?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"I have, I sw…" Harry scrunches his nose up. "I said I have and I have." You're not being fair! he wants to scream. That was a trick. But he's determined to be respectful.

Snape blinks a few times, probably waiting to see if Harry will say anything else incriminating, before returning his attention to the bible. "You have heard that it was said, 'eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.' But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well. If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles. Give to the one who asks you, and do not turn away from the one who wants to borrow from you." He places the bible next to him and folds his hands. "To whom might I be referring?"

There are plenty of evil people in Harry's life that he could mean, but surely it's Umbridge. She riles him up in a way no one else can. Which is probably the point. He doesn't need to swear that Voldemort is back or that he's telling the truth. He's said his peace and should let her say whatever she pleases about it. Sounds awful. "But she's…do I have to?"

Snape almost smiles, though it's soft and almost pitying. "I am not good at turning the other cheek. When I'm attacked I retaliate. It's something I need to work on as well."

Harry nods, aware of Snape standing and fastening his robes. Neither of them needs to say anything else. The lesson's been given.

-;

"Harry are you even listening?" Hermione scolds as she pokes his arm.

He shrugs as he looks up from his reading. "No." It's honest, but he feels a little sick telling her that he doesn't really care about whatever she's saying. "Sorry."

She huffs but keeps going. "I was saying that some people are wondering when we're going to have another meeting."

Dumbledore's Army. He hasn't thought about it at all really, mostly because he wants Snape to be proud of his grades. "Friday, I suppose. I have those… remedial potions lessons a few times per week, remember."

"Sucks mate." Ron doesn't look at him, his focus on the girls in the corner.

Hermione gives him a look of disgust as she looks up from his book, having popped her head over to see what he's reading. "I can't believe you're reading that. We shouldn't be respecting her assigned reading—it's all so rudimentary anyways. Besides, I though you already did it."

"I did," Harry responds quickly. "Just reviewing."

"You're very on top of your studies, this term."

"Yeah," Ron speaks over his shoulder, "you were reading a regular book. Possessed or something?"

Harry chuckles and snaps his book shut. "Does reading fiction mean I'm possessed? Yeah maybe." Their laughter feels empty to him. It's like he's slowly becoming somebody they won't know, or maybe even want to know. And all it took was the attention of an adult. If it had been Sirius, he'd have stayed exactly the same, maybe had a worse temper. They wouldn't have noticed. Maybe that would have been better.

"Snape always wanted me doing quiet things," he explains, "and I don't know—he has some really good books."

"Disgusting," Ron hisses.

Hermione frowns and her eyebrows kit together, like she's looking at something fascinating. "What have you read?"

Things: stuff about homosexuals, heaven, hell, and God. He can't tell her about the Bible, or The Wanting Seed, or the book he smuggled out of Snape's quarters earlier that day: The Swimming Pool Library. That one actually talks about fucking and cocks. But based off the back page of the other one he borrowed, Fathers and Sons, it's a classic.

"I have read the Inferno," he says slowly, "and I borrowed Fathers and Sons from Snape today."

"He lets you borrow books?" Her voice squeaks, but he's not sure if it's fear or awe.

"Yes." Harry counts his breaths as he thinks about his words. "He said that if he's to teach me—and I need him to teach me—that I'm to make an effort to be a better-rounded individual. That means reading."

Hermione smiles like she's been gifted sweets. "I've read both of those and…well, Harry…it's kind of nice to see you interested in something new." Her smile fades slightly into something that bothers him. He's certain she'll be telling Dumbledore.


End file.
